


Though the Nights are Long, and my Bed is so Cold

by teaDragon



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Awkwardness, BAMF Bilbo, Banishment, Cuddling & Snuggling, Curses, Depression, Dwarven Politics, Emotionally Constipated Thorin, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Magic, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Possession, Protective Thorin, Riots, eventual heroics, giant wolves, gossiping hobbits, mild PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:23:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 109,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaDragon/pseuds/teaDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after Thorin banishes Bilbo from Erebor, a strange sorcerer comes to the dwarven kingdom, offering his abilities but demanding power in exchange.</p><p>Bilbo's life in the Shire is not quite what he remembered it to be, and he finds himself missing his friends and growing restless again. </p><p>When a massive wolf suddenly appears in the Shire, both hobbit and dwarf find themselves plunged again into danger, and they may be forced resolve their past hurts and betrayals if they are to have any hope of survival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Market can be a Dangerous Place

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all! Just a quick heads up, this is my first story uploaded on the archives, so if the formatting is weird or something crazy happens, please let me know. Still not entirely sure how this all works... 
> 
> And also, it's only fair that you know I am not the most consistent uploader, so I apologize in advance for potential gaps. I will try to avoid them. :]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Just a quick heads up, this is my first fic posted on the archives and I'm still not entirely sure how it all works just yet...So if the formatting is weird, or something crazy happens just let me know, and I'll see if I can fix it.
> 
> Also, I'm not exactly the fastest or most consistent uploader, so apologies in advance. I will try to avoid wait times, though. ;)

It was an unusually cold September morning that found Bilbo Baggins making his way down to the relative quiet of the hustle-and-bustle of Hobbiton market. Though much would seem relatively quiet to one who was acquainted with dwarves, or who had spent any amount of time in their presence, Bilbo mused. As it was, hobbits could hold their own in terms of bartering and gossip very well, thank you, so it was with some caution that he set about his business of restocking his pantry.

Lately, he just hadn’t been up to the task.

While Bilbo was no stranger to gossip, and even more than friendly with being the subject of it, he had begun to dread the unfortunately necessary treks down to society proper. The reason for this being, aside from his shattered respectability in the eyes of his community, that his cousin Otho was engaged. Engaged to none other than Miss Lobelia Bracegirdle, soon to be Mrs. Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, as she kept reminding everyone whenever and wherever she could, and even when she couldn’t.

As a result, Bilbo had been avoiding the market even more than usual, which was saying something as he was already considered to be quite reclusive. Scandalously so, even. But if he could avoid Lobelia aiming one of her self-important rants at him, than he would cheerfully avoid the market for the rest of his life.

However, as he realized that morning he was only down to a few meagre supplies in his pantry, he was faced with the unhappy decision to either go down to the market, or starve. It was hard to say which was more attractive. Either way it was a pretty close call.

Alternatively there was the option of foraging for food or trying to bribe his neighbor Hamfast into picking it up for him, in exchange for coin or…whatever he had lying around his house. But that would probably amount to very little as he could not exactly bake anything without the proper ingredients and Hamfast probably wouldn't be interested in a book or a map. Not that Bilbo could bear to part with any of his anyway.

Perhaps he could offer to look after their little ones while Hamfast and his wife had some alone time? But no, that would only spell disaster. Bilbo didn’t think he could stand up to quite so many fauntlings at once. It had taken close to two months before he had worked up a way to deal with Fili and Kili, and even then the princes still managed to get him involved in the craziest plans, much to his consternation.

As he made his purchases as fast as he could without seeming rude (he was still respectable in a moral sense, after all) Bilbo glanced around nervously, hoping that he would be spared just this once from running into Lobelia, who always seemed to be at the market gathering and spreading the latest gossip. As he made his not-hasty-at-all and in-no-way-a-retreat back up the hill, he was stopped by the sudden and very much unwelcome manifestation of his thoughts.

“Bilbo Baggins!” He groaned and dejectedly turned around.

“Oh, hullo Lobelia. I didn’t see you at the market.”

“I don’t suppose you did! Too busy to talk to normal decent folk anymore, are you Mr. Baggins?” She said coldly, glaring at him. Lobelia was the only person he knew who could wear pink frilly petticoats and a parasol, and somehow come up with terrifying. It had quite the effect.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.” He said with what he hoped was a convincing amount of confusion.

“Oh you know very well, Bilbo. Spending so much time tramping around the Shire, locking yourself in your house and refusing to answer the door. It’s not respectable at all!” Bilbo sighed and continued walking up the hill, Lobeila following him.

“A respectable hobbit of your age should be already settled down with a family by now! And yet when was the last time you’ve bothered to call on anyone for a purely social visit?”

Bilbo frowned. Now that wasn’t entirely fair. He _had_ been avoiding the local gossipers and busybodies, but not everyone. “I visited my mother’s family in Tookland just two weeks ago.”

Lobelia scowled. “Of course you would go to the Tooks. Unrespectable and wild the lot of them.” Bilbo wasn’t going to argue that. It was partially the reason why he had gone. “I bet you spent more time telling those awful tales of yours to faunts and tweens than paying attention to the lasses.”

“I happen to enjoy their company, thank you. And I’m not such a bad story teller either, if the reception I get is any indication.”

Lobelia rounded on him, stopping walking entirely. “You have no intentions of getting married at all, do you?!”

“I…”

Bilbo had always liked the idea of having a family. But as he found himself more, shall we say, _intimately attracted_ to males the idea of getting married in the Shire was quite a distant one. Some of his friends from his impulsive tweenhood had married, he knew. Even if they shared in his predicament. But Bilbo would not marry simply for the purpose of starting a family. It was not fair to himself, and certainly not fair to whichever lass he would be living with. After he had returned from Erebor marriage was simply the last thing on his mind.

“Not exactly, no. It is not very likely to happen.”

“Ha! Now _that_ I can believe.” The glint in the hobbit lasses eye turned sharper “No self respecting lass would want to be saddled with the likes of _you_. Not even for the sake of Bag End, a smial which was clearly built with a family in mind. It was not intended for some selfish bachelor who wants it all to himself!”

Bilbo stiffened, and inhaled sharply. “May I remind you that Bag End was built by _my father_ , as a wedding gift for _my mother_. As I am their only son I cannot imagine how you could possibly have a greater claim over it than myself.” He was willing to play along with the polite conversation game, but only up to an extent. There was a line, and she had just crossed it. And Bilbo was not going to stand here and be insulted by a greedy soon-to-be in-law trying to get her claws into his home. Once was enough. But apparently Lobelia was not just finished yet.

“Bag End should be Otho’s! In case you haven’t noticed we are engaged, and unlike _some_ people, we will be starting a proper large family, and will be deserving of a large smial to accommodate ourselves.”

“Your single opinion is not the deciding one on this matter!”

Lobelia laughed. It wasn’t a nice sound. In fact if anything, it brought back images of Azog. Just with pink frills and an umbrella. “Oh, you really think that? You really think you can just run off like that and expect to come back to everything just the way you left it?” She smiled, cold and cruel, Bilbo half expected to see a fang or two poking out at any time. “I’m afraid it’s not just my ‘single opinion’. Nobody wanted you back. The Shire was better off without Bilbo Baggins.” She spat. “You should have stayed with those savage dwarves.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened reflexively at the mention of his companions, which unfortunately for him, Lobelia noticed. Sensing his unease she pressed on. “Or did they not want you either? I bet they threw you away the first chance they got.”

Bilbo struggled to speak, to find the words to say his friends would never throw him away. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. Because how could he make Lobelia believe something he was unsure of himself? How could he say his companions wanted his company when he had been banished on his departure?

And Thorin... _Thorin_ , who had been so warm and protective, had looked at the hobbit with such hateful eyes. Bilbo stuttered, but they both knew it was useless. Lobelia had found his weak spot, and now she was going for the kill.

“ _Nobody_ cares for you, Bilbo. Not even those brutish dwarves. So why don’t you do us all a favour and disappear for good this time. It’s only a shame you didn’t have the decency to die on your first little trip.”

Bilbo was stunned. His throat was closing in on itself, hands shaking, breaths coming too fast and too shallow.

But he was still aware enough to register the monstrous _GROWL_ that erupted from the trees off to the right of the path.

Lobelia shrieked and Bilbo whipped his head around just in time to see a huge, lumbering _something_ , tearing towards them, all fangs and fur and claws, before it leapt. Instincts kicked in, and with a burst of adrenaline he shot foreword, pushing himself and Lobelia out of the way to fall in a heap on the path.

Momentarily stunned, Bilbo quickly rolled over and found the creature growling a few paces away from them, bearing its deadly fangs. He shakily got to his feet, not taking his eyes from the predator. In the back of his mind he wondered madly, just what was a giant wolf doing in the Shire, in the middle of fall?

Apparently it was here to remind Bilbo exactly how much he hated being face to face with the jaws and claws of some hell beast from the presumed north. It locked eyes with Bilbo, their icy blue a startling colour, jumping out from the grey fur with patches of white.

“Lobelia, stay behind me-“ He started, glad to hear that his voice sounded firmer than his legs felt. Which is to say not terribly much. The sound of a dress rustling and frantic gasping coming from behind him was his only warning before he was shoved sharply between his shoulder blades sending him right towards the demon wolf. Lobelia screamed and ran, yelling for help and valiantly leaving her soon-to-be in-law prone on the ground to provide her a getaway.

Bilbo had about a second to think _how respectable_ and squeeze his eyes shut before the wolf attacked. He could feel the heat of its breath and hear the enraged snarl as it began to -to get farther away?

His eyes snapped open. Why wasn’t he dead? And that was Lobelia shrieking again.

He flipped around to see the wolf going after the hobbit lass, not even flinching when her umbrella was thrown right at its nose. But instead of gaining on her, the wolf slowed to a stop and continued to snarl at the hobbit’s frantically retreating form. It turned around and slowly lumbered back towards Bilbo.

He scrambled to his feet, cursing his bizarre luck and wondering how long it would take before Lobelia had raised enough of a ruckus to get some backup. The wolf was coming right up to him, steady as you please, and that made Bilbo a little less than comfortable.

“S-stay back! Don’t! You don’t want to eat me, wolfy! Everyone will be very mad if you make a mess all over the road!”

But the wolf just brushed past him ignoring his squeak of alarm, and of all things, went over to one of his scattered bags of produce. And picked it up with its mouth.

It shot Bilbo an almost exasperated glare as he stood there with his mouth hanging open in shock. After a while the beast seamed to shrug, and began to walk up the hill towards Bag End. When it was quite a while away it turned and growled irritably at the still frozen Bilbo who flinched at the sound.

To say he was confused was an understatement. Flabbergasted may be closer to the mark, but Bilbo was far too whatever it was to think of a proper word to describe it.

“I don’t believe it.” He said to himself. “I’m being bossed around by a massive wolf. And not eaten by it.” Another growl startled him into action. “Alright, alright, I’m _going!_ ” He snapped, quickly gathering his fallen bags, “Keep your fur on, you great beast.” Bilbo trailed up the hill in the wake of the powerful wolf wondering just what exactly was the world throwing at him now?


	2. A Shadow Falls on the Mountain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, so that took a while. Writing this chapter was like trying to drag a screaming toddler through a crowded grocery store. Ughhh. The other ones should be out faster for sure!
> 
> I was looking over my notes for this fic and wow, it got intense. This may be very, very epic by the end.
> 
> Thank you all for the reviews and kudos and bookmarks and just for reading! I actually have something, but...well, I don't really know how to upload art work just yet. Hopefully I'll figure it out, and then you can all see my shoddy drawings for this fic.

 

 

Thorin Oakenshield, Kind Under the Mountain and Lord of Erebor, sat upon his throne with his crown upon his brow. The pale blue glow of the arkenstone surrounded him like a halo, making the regal dwarf appear to be almost ethereal in his majesty. His face was stern and he held himself as strong and unbending as the mountain itself.

 

If one were to see him as such, a mighty king with virtual mountains of gold and a prosperous kingdom, one would be so awed by his presence as to perhaps forgive his stern demeanor in favour of the good it seemed to have wrought for his people. But to those who knew him better, they would perhaps note that his expression was not one of contentment nor of pride. In fact, this current expression was one so lovingly labeled _‘The Royal Glower’_ by his nephews, and _‘The Imperious Brooding Face of Despair’_ by a certain hobbit.

 

Thorin knew he should be content. He had everything he had ever dreamt of. He had overcome the dragon’s wrath and braved the all the dangers the world could throw at him to reclaim his ancestral home. He had done so without the aid of his distant family or so-called allies, relying instead on a small company who were above all else loyal to him. And they had done it. Even when many had called it folly, they had done it. His kingdom was rich and prosperous, and the envy of many, his people satisfied and content. But what of their king? Discontent followed him like a cloud. Why did the endless piles of gold and the blossoming of his kingdom evoke in him no great joy?

 

Thorin’s heart still yearned for more. Some feared it was the curse of the dragon, gold-sickness. But it was not precious gems and jewels Thorin longed for. His dreams were not haunted by the call of pale enchanted gold nor treasure.

 

_Soft, hazel eyes and gently curling hair._

 

His hands clenched from where they rested upon the arms of his throne. It would not serve to be so distracted in court.

 

“Your Majesty,” one of his guards stood before him, bowing respectfully, “There is a man here who wishes you audience. He says he is a sorcerer of great power and wishes to pay his respect to the king.” Thorin could hear Dwalin shifting a bit from beside him. As the head of the Royal Guard, it was Dwalin’s duty to protect the King, and that also extended to being present during open court.

 

“Very well. Let this man come foreword.” As the dwarf hurried off to allow their visitor into the court, Dwalin moved a bit closer to the throne. “You sure that’s a good idea, yer grace?” He asked, “I wouldn’t be so quick to allow some magic user into my kingdom.” Though rough and dangerous looking, Dwalin was Thorin’s closest and oldest friend. Loyal to a fault, Thorin would have no other in charge of his personal security. And it was a relief to have someone there who would speak to him as a friend, not just as a king.

 

“He may not be what he claims. I shall hear him out and then decide how quickly to have him shown to the gates.” Dwalin snorted. Both were far too familiar of the meddling ways of Gandalf the Grey, and neither were eager to have to deal with another magic user.

 

The guards at the entrance to the throne room parted, and in walked the stranger. He was a tall man, and though slight he was well built. His red-brown hair curled a bit (and Thorin inhaled sharply as he was immediately reminded of another set of curls) from where it was kept short around his neck and was streaked with black. He wore a robe, matching the colours of his hair, and carried a particular staff shaped to form some strange horned creature. He was handsome, by man’s standards, but the beard that reached his chest would be admired by dwarves as well. However there was something unsettling about him, the way he moved was…wrong somehow. Thorin sat up straighter.

 

“Your Majesty.” Chills immediately went up Thorin’s spine, and he heard Dwalin clench his fist tighter around his axes. There was something just off about that voice. Deep and smooth as velvet, it almost sounded muffled. “It brings me great pleasure to have been welcomed to your mighty kingdom so graciously.”

 

“You know of me, it seems, but I have not met you before.” Thorin replied bluntly. Thorin was the last person to be impressed upon by sugary compliments and false praise.

 

The man smiled, crimson eyes glinting. “I am called Tuguthul. The North is my home.”

 

“And prey, what brings your presence to my mountain?”

 

“I have come to offer your most gracious majesty my humble services.” He bowed low, and hand over his chest.

 

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “And what services do you intend to offer?”

 

He smiled. “I am known as a great Sorcerer in the North. Vast are my powers and great is my skill. I am offering it to you, sire.”

 

“You have not answered my question, Sorcerer. What are you offering?” Thorin had far too many people trying to gain his favour by appealing to his ego. It disgusted him. Some days he longed to be nothing more than a simple smith again, just to be spoken to honestly.

 

“King Thorin, you are a great and mighty king. Erebor prospers under your guidance. But think of how much greater you could be? You ask me what I am offering. I ask you what is it that you desire? Gold? You could have more than you could ever dream of. I can grant you power, great power. With me by your side you will have more than just Erebor. You will be King of all dwarves.” Tuguthul paced as he spoke, guestering with his arms. He turned back to Thorin, eyes intense.

 

“Think on it. I could offer you Moria. Have you not longed for the glory of that lost Kingdom? Think of the riches, the Mithril. It can be yours. All will bow to you , Great King Thorin. All I ask in return is to be your advisor. Let me grant you this, your majesty.”

 

“…Anything I desire, you can grant me?” “Name it, sire.” Images of his mother, his brother Frerin flashed unbidden through Thorin’s mind.

 

“What of the dead, sorcerer? What if I desire to have those lost to the dragon returned. Can you offer this?”

 

His smile did not falter. In fact it merely grew “My powers are vast, your grace. Anything, or anyone, this I can grant as well.”

 

_Gentle peals of soft laughter floated over the porch over looking the fields of clover. The small creature beside him looked up with such trustful eyes and a rueful, crooked smile._

 

Anyone…

 

_His hands closed around a soft neck, lifting him clear off his feat and dangling him over the drop. Those beautiful eyes filled with so much terror, with heartbreaking resignment-_

 

“No.”

 

“…No?” The man blinked, taken aback.

 

“No. You, Sorcerer, cannot give me what I want. What I desire most is not something you can conjure up.” Magic could not change the past. They had all heard horror stories of the necromancer. And Thorin would never use magic to force his company on another. No smile of his hobbit’s should ever be forced. Only freely given.

 

The man was staring at him in anger, but Thorin was not yet finished. “Do not think you can so easily earn a place on my council either. You speak of my desires, but what of your own? Power, you wish for my Kingdom. You wish to be the force behind the throne. I shall tell you now, sorcerer, that no one in this kingdom is given such a position lightly, and certainly not to one I do not trust with my life.” Thorin rose from his seat “Now be gone, and do not darken my Kingdom with your presence again. Dwalin, see he makes it to the gates.”

 

“With pleasure.” Dwalin growled, starting towards Tuguthul.

 

“A curse upon you, Thorin Oakensheild, King Under the Mountain.” The man said, voice filled with venom, shaking with rage. “I offered you power, but for your scorn you shall be punished. All shall know how unworthy you are of your throne. All shall see your shame, dwarf.” Tuguthul spat viciously, an eerie green light suddenly glowing from the eyes of his staff. It intensified, and Thorin had to cover his eyes at its sudden brilliance.

 

He could hear Dwalin shouting orders and people running around. He lowered his arm to see the sorcerer had vanished. “Find him! Spread out and bring me that sorcerer!” Dwalin roared as his men rushed to comply.

 

“Yer majesty. Yer Majesty!” Thorin realized Dwalin was talking to him, but he felt it was as if from a great distance.

 

“Thorin! Snap out of it!” The shake to his shoulders brought him back to the present, and his eyes finally focused on the concerned face of his friend.

 

“Dwalin…”

 

“Ye alright? Thorin, did he do something to you!?”

 

“No…no, I…” He shook himself, feeling groggy and disoriented.

 

“Someone fetch Oin!” Dwalin yelled, bodily grabbing the king as he swayed. “C’mon, lets get you back to your rooms. We’ll get Oin to look ye over.”

 

Thorin felt a great weariness settle over him. Images of a far green country, little fields and peaceful meadows ran through his mind.

 

_“All shall know how unworthy you are of your throne…”_

 

His heart clenched as he realized he would likely never see his hobbit again. And he had no one to blame but himself.

 

_"All shall see your shame…"_

 

Oh, Bilbo…no pain could be worse than never seeing that gentle creature again.

 

 


	3. Conversations and Confrontations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blah, so this is late. But it's super long!!
> 
> And I am really tired, so i will be back to edit this thing later.

“Ohh no. No, no, no. No, this isn’t happening.” The wolf had walked right up the hill to the green painted door of Bag End, without any form of direction from Bilbo, who was trailing behind somewhat warily. “A giant wolf from who-knows-where does _not_ know where I live.”

 

It turned around and fixed the hobbit with a look that quickly turned into an eye roll. Well, whatever the wolf equivalent of an eye roll was, Bilbo was sure he was on the receiving end of it.

 

“Well, I’m sorry, but this is just a bit unusual!” He snapped, “Even for a Wednesday.” Wednesday was the one day Bilbo could never quite get the hang of. “And I certainly don’t remember meeting any wolves last I left the Shire.” He huffed, pointedly, “Well, not like you. Now wargs on the other hand, yes, I met lots of those.”

 

He was cut off from his rambling by a growl. “No, no!” Bilbo said hastily, waving his hands, “I didn’t mean it like that! You’re quite right – You are not a bit like a warg! Much nicer colouring. And your fur is far nicer than that warg scruff. Awful that is, nothing like your lovely pelt.”

 

The creature let out a satisfied huff before turning to the door and placing its paw on the surface. Its large paw was easily the size of his hand, never mind the added span of its claws. Even crouched down the beast still reached his waist reminding Bilbo of the build of the massive gundabad wargs. However, this wolf had an entirely different presence about it. The eyes were far too…human. And the way its paw rested on the door just _so_ as not to scratch the paint…

 

He was startled out of his daze by a soft yip and Bilbo realized somewhat embarrassedly he had been staring. The wolf pushed on the door again, looking back and forth from the door, and then to Bilbo again. Such expressive eyes! Pale blue, like twin shards of ice fire. 

 

And they were currently glaring at him in exasperation. It took another growl to startle Bilbo into action. Of course. He was still standing there gawking like an idiot. Excellent.

 

“Ah, yes, well. I’ll just unlock that then, shall I?” He said lamely. The hobbit awkwardly shuffled around the wolf, which moved out of the way so he could fish his key out of his coat pocket and unlock the door. 

This was a bit of a new development. Bilbo would have never dreamt of locking his front door before his adventure. He also would have never dreamt of half of the awful and terrible things out in the wild he had the significant misfortune to encounter (see: spiders, goblins, wargs, dragons, self important royalty etc.). 

 

However, it was not for any of these very good reasons that he now locked his door. This new habit had come about as a reaction to his welcome home reception – having about half of Hobbiton crowding his beautiful hole - and auctioning it off. And the icing on the cake was Lobelia prancing around measuring his rooms to see if her furniture would fit! 

 

Needless to say, Bilbo was understandably distraught to see his very much missed hobbit hole undergoing such treatment, and had never quite recovered from the shock of how everyone had taken his disappearance. His reputation was never the same, but that didn’t bother him. It was that some seemed disappointed to see him return at all. 

 

He had heard – mostly from Hamfast, always loyal to a fault – that he had become something of a cautionary tale for the elders to tell the younglings of. ‘Don’t go running off with strange folk, or go beyond the borders of the Shire, ‘lest you end up as Mr. Baggins did. Killed in some strange foreign part with no one to see to his rights!’ By returning to the Shire, Bilbo had managed to dispel these ridiculous tales – though it did take a while before he was legally considered alive on paperwork. 

 

But new tales had sprung up. Mr. Baggins was now seen as queer and odd and unrespectable incarnate. He kept to himself, hardly spoke to much of anyone without prompting, and was prone to staring off into the East longingly. The lights in his smial were on at all odd hours of the night, usually just the one coming from the study if anyone knew the layout, but occasionally the living room would remain lit well into the early mornings.

 

He was often seen sporting dark circles under his eyes - that is - when he was seen at all. Occasionally he would disappear for a week or so only to turn up in the oddest places, around Tookland or Bindbole Wood, once even in Bree. No doubt about it: Mr. Baggins had gone on an adventured and it had changed him all for the worse. Let that be a warning to any and all who had thoughts of traveling to strange and wild places.

 

Typically Bilbo did not mind the gossip all too much. He had put up with worse, during the early months of his adventure, often at the hands of an openly hostile Dwarf King. But sometimes it was more than just the gossip and the less than pleasant things they said about him. 

 

Sometimes it hit far too close to home. 

 

Bilbo opened the door only for the wolf to push right in under his outstretched arm. It moved with a confident stride, heading right for his pantry, just as if it owned the place. When he did not follow immediately, the beast once again threw him a look over its shoulder.

 

And that was all Bilbo could take.

 

His back hit the wall and he shakily slid down to the floor, arms hugging his knees to his chest, hunching in on himself in a ball of misery. Sobs began to wrack his small frame, and he buried his head in his arms.

 

A soft whining to his left was followed by a hesitant nip on his sleeve. A cold nose pressed against his arm, and when the hobbit did not come out the whines continued. Eventually the large head of the creature nudged at his arm, managing to burrow under and nose the hobbit in the chest, licking at his face.

 

“I-I….sorry. Y-you,” He swallowed hard, “You even l-look like him, act like, Th-Th…like _him!_ ”

It all screamed of Thorin. His arrogant behavior, exasperated expressions, everything. And Thorin…Thorin was someone that Bilbo desperately did not want to think on. But he did. Far, far too often.

 

“I-I’m sorry, but I just, just _can’t_ , I…”

 

The wolf nuzzled up to him, whining softly, and Bilbo threw his arms around the large neck and sobbed into it. He must have been pulling at the fur, probably crying all over it too. But the wolf let him. 

 

Bilbo knew he was being foolish. A grown hobbit like him breaking down and crying in the middle of his hallway was simply disgraceful. But it was just too much. Lobelia had been going at him for weeks and weeks now, trying to find his weakness, seeing how far she could push. Hurt him enough that he would leave and Bag End would be hers. He had dealt with it – and quite well, thank you – up until now. But it was getting later in the year and the chill winds were beginning to blow in. And winter was never a good time for Bilbo Baggins. 

 

The Fell Winter had claimed his parents. His father had gone first, killed by the vicious wolves that crossed into the Shire over the frozen Brandywine. His mother died a few months late, succumbing to the wounds she had from trying to protect her family. Many of his Nightmares had been of the frost and snow, red splattering across the unending white and screams filling the air. Bilbo had been 31, just two years from reaching his adulthood.

New nightmares haunted him now. Now the snow also served to remind him of a horrible battle fought at the foot of a mountain. Of anger and madness and death. And betrayal.

 

No, winter was not a good time for Bilbo. The northern winds coupled with Lobelias taunts had done him in. It was ridiculous and it was stupid, but hearing someone voice aloud some of his own darkest thoughts and doubts had seemingly made them true. 

 

After a while the hobbit managed to compose himself. The wolf’s weight was comforting against his chest, a soft rumbling coming from its body, almost as if it was humming. Despite the hollow ache in his chest and the slight headache brought about by crying, Bilbo felt much better. Perhaps it was the first friendly contact he had had with another in far too long. 

 

“Oh dear me” He mumbled into the fur. “What a silly hobbit I am.”

 

A loud knock at the door startled them both. The wolf growled threateningly at the entrance way as the knocking got louder. Bilbo could make out voices from the outside, what sounded like a few people, maybe arguing. Was that the sheriff…? He had such a distinct voice. It was joined by a frantic sounding female voice. Lobelia’s actually. Realization dawned on Bilbo, and he quickly jumped to his feet.

 

“Oh perfect, they probably think I’m dead.” He scrubbed his eyes and scowled down at the wolf, “No thanks to you!” The beast looked properly offended and even a bit hurt.

“Oh no, don’t give me that!” Bilbo jabbed his finger towards the beast. “This is what happens when you go around jumping and snarling at people in broad daylight! Lobelia’s probably hopping I’m dead so she can have the house.”

“No! No, no, wolfy, hold it!” Bilbo had to throw both arms around the creature’s neck as it lunged for the door snarling. “Are you _trying_ to start a riot!?” He hissed, “Look, no snarling, no attacking, bad wolf! Bad! I will handle them, and you will stay out of sight! Unless you’d rather have us _both_ run out of town, or have the rangers set on you? Now stay back there!”

Thankfully the crazy, temperamental beast did not follow him to the door. Now if it would only stay out of sight and not pounce on anyone given the opportunity he might just be able to pull this off. He gathered himself and shoved his insecurities to the back of his mind, taking a deep breath. This was certainly not the place nor the time for that. Now he just had to keep it together until everything was sorted out and then he could go back to his wallowing. 

 

“Just a moment!” he called.

He was treated to the shocked faces of Sherriff Richfield and the lovely Lobelia as he pulled open the door, spotting a few other hobbits hanging back to see what all the fuss was about.

 

“Why Mr. Baggins!” Sherriff Richfield exclaimed, taking a step back. “You’re not dead at all!”

 

“Ahh, no, not to my knowledge.” Bilbo replied, secretly taking pleasure in Lobelia’s flabbergasted expression, as he played dumb. “But thank you, I suppose, for confirming that. Very considerate. Especially after all the fuss it took for me to confirm that very thing when I got back two years ago. It’s nice to know I have the community backing me on that. ”

 

“Well, bless me!” The Sherriff took off his feathered hat, “I’d heard that you’d been eaten by a giant warg!”

 

“Oh, good heavens, no.” Bilbo said, waving him off.

 

“Bilbo Baggins!” Lobelia looked perfectly livid by now, “You and I both know what happened down the Hill! I saw it with my very eyes, and unlike _some_ people, I do not go around telling tall tales and fibs!”

 

“Well,” he said, scratching his head, “forgive me but, if you saw what happened then I can’t imagine what you could possibly need me for now.”

 

“You know very well, you ninny! That thing jumped right at you! You should be dead!”

 

“But, as we’ve just established – remember that, Sherriff Richfield? – That I am in fact _not_ dead – alive, even–“

“But _why_ , you insufferable dolt?!” And out came the umbrella! They both flinched back when Lobelia grasped it like a sword. “Why did that thing not kill you?!”

 

“Ah…ha, well. I’ll admit I was a bit confused.” Bilbo decided he had pushed Lobelia enough for now, and as satisfying as it may be, he wanted them gone even more so he could sort himself out. “Thing is, the creature was more interested in my purchases than in me.”

 

“What?!”

 

“I suppose I should be grateful, but it’s a bit of a shame, really. It just up and made off with them.”

 

“Bless me,” said the Sherriff, worrying the hat in his hands, “You mean to say there really is a hungry beast runnin’ around Hobbiton, going after us hobbit folk?”

 

“Look, as far as we know it hasn’t hurt anyone,” Bilbo said, trying to calm the agitated man down. “By all means, inform the other sheriffs! But it wouldn’t do to get everyone in an uproar over nothing. After all, Miss Bluebell is getting married just next weekend, and I would rather face a hungry beast than her if it is disrupted by a wolf-hunting mob.”

 

Sherriff Richfield actually paled at that, “Aye Mr. Baggins, that would not be good.”

 

“You’re hiding something.” Lobelia said suddenly, eyes narrowing, “You seem awfully quick to defend a rouge wolf. Especially considering your personal history, I’d think _you_ of all people would know exactly what a beast like that is capable of.” 

 

Bilbo sharply inhaled. Lobelia was on a roll today. Bringing up his dear dwarven friends _and_ the circumstances of his parent’s death, and all before noon. This was a new record of low for the woman. 

 

“Yes Lobelia,” he said, voice steely and cold, “I did see my father being killed by a wolf. And it was the most awful thing I had ever seen. Why on earth would I wish that fate on another?”

 

“That’s what you’re doing, Bilbo! I bet you are behind this, you brought this thing into Hobbitown!” She jabbed him hard in the chest with her umbrella, “I bet you met that thing out in the wild an it followed you back! Now we’re all in danger because of _you!_ ”

 

“Whoa there!” The Sherriff had quickly jumped between the enraged hobbit lass and Bilbo, waving his arms about “Now hold just a minute! These are some mighty heavy accusations you’re makin’ Miss Sackville. As Sherriff, I’ll have to go over all of this and I’ll gladly hear you out down in the office it you have some information.”

 

“Oh, gladly.” She spat.

 

“Sherriff Richfield?” Bilbo began shyly, sensing his chance, “Will you be needing me any longer today? I know you must be terribly busy, and I would hate to hold up such an important person as the Sherriff– of all people - on my doorstep all day.”

 

He puffed up at that looking quite pleased at being called ‘important’. “Why no, Mr. Baggins, I don’t suppose I need you for anything else now.”

 

“Oh good.” Bilbo sighed, hamming it up a bit, “I hate to be rude, but it’s nearly noon and I’ve quite missed elevensies, don’t you know, considering everything that’s happened.”

 

“Oh, I hear you, Mr. Baggins, I hear you!” The Sherriff chuckled pleasantly, patting his own large belly in sympathy. Bilbo fought down a snort as Lobelia rolled her eyes in pure irritation from behind the larger man. As much as there was mutual dislike between Bilbo and Lobelia, both were fluent in an entirely different level of word smithing and speech manipulation than the rest of the Shire. They could easily run circles around most when it came to verbal battles, so at least in that, they respected each other. 

 

“Well, best be off!” The Sherriff set his abused hat back on his head, oblivious to his now thoroughly ruffled feather sticking out of it. “Now, Miss Sackville, if you’ll kindly accompany me down to the office, we can hear you out good and proper.”

 

“Won’t that be a change!” She huffed, swinging her umbrella in an arch before it rested on her shoulder, nearly catching Bilbo in the jaw. “Bilbo. Such a pleasure, as always. Good day.” She nodded curtly, more of a dismissal than anything, and started down the hill in a flurry of skirts and petticoats.

“Now Mr. Baggins, you just leave this to the Sheriffs. We’ll have this all sorted out in no time!”

 

“Oh, I’m glad to hear that.”

 

When the door finally closed he leaned against it, sighing in relief. And Balin had wondered why Bilbo had such a knack for politics if hobbits rarely interacted with royalty or outsiders at all. Who needed elaborate court systems and foreign dignitaries when you had a large extended family and nosy neighbours?

 

A soft yip had Bilbo opening his eyes (when had they closed?) and looking down at his guest, who pressed a cold nose to his shin. He absently scratched behind its ears.

 

“Where are you from, wolfy?” It barked at him, nosing his hands gently. “You better not turn out to be a hobbit-eating wolf from the north. I just defended you, don’t you know. I‘ll be terribly put out if you eat anyone now.”

 

The wolf growled in what Bilbo was going to call an irritated manor. “Oh never mind that now, I’m far to hungry. All this talk of eating is getting to me.” He headed towards the kitchen, the wolf following at his heals. 

 

“I’ll just put together an early lunch and- _Oh!_ “ He spun around, cursing himself for his stupidity “You poor thing!” The wolf stopped dead, completely bewildered as he was suddenly rounded on by a frantic hobbit. 

 

“You must be starving!” The wolf did look rather weather worn and haggard. “Oh dear me, what an awful host I’m being!” His hands came up to his face in mortification. “Oh, if my poor father could see me now, just what would he say? I shouldn’t like to think!”

 

Bilbo rushed over to the pantry and took a large chunk off of a slab of beef. The wolf’s eyes widened almost comically as he set it down in front of the creature on a large plate. “I hope this is to your liking, but if not I’ve got some ham - I think – and do let me know if you want seconds! You are very welcome to it.”

 

The wolf dug in with gusto, and surprisingly neatly for a wolf. It watched as the hobbit scurried around preparing a small platter of sandwiches and a few scones from a basket.

 

“It’s no wonder I couldn’t get anything out of you - you were starving! No one should be expected to behave civil on an empty stomach. We’ll talk after. Yes, I said talk!” He added, feeling eyes on him and meeting its confused gaze, “Wolf or no wolf, you can obviously understand me. And we are going to figure something out so you can tell me what you are doing in the Shire. There’s no way you came here just to terrify nasty gossips, or help flustered hobbits carry their groceries.” He muttered, “And I can’t go around calling you ‘wolfy’ all the time, now can I? We’ll have to figure out your name as well.”

 

After a while Bilbo scurried out the backdoor to grab some of his tomatoes. The smaller cherry tomatoes would go nicely with his cucumber sandwiches. It was a shame he could not properly cook for his guest, he mused as he looked for a good ripe one. The wolf looked like it could use a good meal.

 

He sighed, suddenly sitting down in the grass. Why did he care so much about a lone wolf in the Shire? Well, it was sentient, that much was sure. It didn’t act like a monster. And it had scared off Lobelia. All good things.

 

But really, _why_ was he helping it? Or rather, what was it about this wolf that compelled him to do so? Bilbo would have liked to say he was a kind person, and not beyond extending help to someone when they needed it. 

 

But there was something else.

 

Perhaps the wolf reminded him just too much of a certain someone he once had the honor of calling friend. Perhaps the resemblance was enough he felt that through helping the wolf in a way he was helping his dear friend. The way he should have…

 

He touched his neck absently as the phantom pain of a pair of hands tingled along his skin. He almost relished the feeling. It was what he deserved, after all.

 

He shut his eyes briefly, feeling his throat constrict. Even after two years it still stung just as much as it had when it happened. He was back in the Shire, but he had not come home.

 

What good was a house if there was no one there to share it with? The empty rooms echoed with the shades of what was and what might have been. His mother and father laughing. Deep, rough voices singing in a foreign tongue of fire and a mountain. He would rather be homeless and take to the wilds so long as he had someone there with him. Someone to love…

 

Bilbo shook himself. Here he was, nearly 53, and kneeling in his backyard crying in a patch of tomatoes. Oh, what a sorry sight he was! It was no wonder he was alone. 

 

He scrubbed angrily at his eyes, getting to his feet. “That is _quiet_ enough sniveling for one day, Bilbo Baggins!” He said to himself, brushing off his trousers and gathering his tomatoes. “Pull yourself together! You have a guest to entertain, you cannot be sulking around the house at all odd hours now. How can you call yourself a Baggins?!”

 

Bilbo resolutely marched himself back inside and placed the tomatoes on the counter. His sandwiches were almost done, he just had to slice up a few things and put it together. Movement caught his eye and he glanced over his shoulder at his guest seated at the table.

 

“Oh Thorin, could you pass me that knife over there.”

 

Bilbo contemplated throwing some ground nuts in the sandwiches as well, but he was going to use them for muffins tomorrow morning…

…

…

His heart caught in his throat as he spun around frantically to face the table. It was…he was…just sitting there. At Bilbo’s table. 

 

The dwarf’s posture was tense, his face carefully blank but pinched with concern. He slowly begun to rise, moving carefully, as if not to spook a frightened pony.

 

Bilbo shook his head violently. This was not happening – this was _not happening!_ He took a shaky step backward. Thorin Oakenshield was _not_ standing in his kitchen, wearing only a bath towel, and he was _not_ looking at Bilbo with the most heartbreaking expression on his face.

 

“…Bilbo.” His name was spoken so softly, so tenderly. But it did little to calm the storm raging in the hobbit’s head. Or the blackness from creeping into the edges of his vision. 

 

“…Nope.” And the hobbit hit the ground in a dead faint.

 

Thorin sighed, and carefully lifted the unconscious hobbit in his arms.

 

“That could have gone better.”


	4. A New Look

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so many reviews and kudos and hits.. <3 
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry this chapter took so long, I was having a really hard time figuring out how Bilbo would react to all of this, and I'm still not sure if I like how it turned out. I may go back and re-edit and swap some things around and all that, but here it is anyway.
> 
> ps. I am probably going to add some new tags and possibly up the rating for later chapters, but I will post a warning in each chapter where that stuff actually happens.

Xxx

 

A piercing howl rent the air, echoing eerily off the richly designed corridors of the royal wing. Dwalin had grasper and keeper out and was hurling towards the source of the noise in the span of a heartbeat. 

 

It was coming from the personal living chambers of the royal family.

 

Dwalin had been on edge all day. At least he had been after that damned sorcerer had dropped by, and tried to sweet talk his way onto the council and curse the King in the same few minutes.

 

Thorin had been shaken from the experience, and Dwalin had personally escorted him back to his chambers and had Oin check him over. The healer had seen nothing obviously wrong, and Thorin himself had said he was fine, just a bit dizzy. But the expression that had come over his face when the guard had first rushed to his side…he looked devastated. Almost as bad as he had been after the dragon and Azanulbizar. It was only there for a moment before the king closed off again, but whatever it was Dwalin doubted it was gone for good.

 

Needless to say, Dwalin had thundered back down to his guard and demanded they bring the sorcerer before him immediately. But no one had found him. Not one person had seen even a glimpse of that cursed man since his spectacular exit in the throne room, including the royal guard, much to Dwalin’s extreme frustration.

 

Thorin had been none too gently ordered to stay in his chambers and take the rest of the day off by Lady Dis. That Thorin didn’t even pretend to put up much of a fight put everyone on edge, and Dwalin himself had to escort Fili and Kili from the King’s rooms as night had fallen despite their determination on having a sleepover in their uncle’s room. As much as their concern was appreciated, Thorin was a private person, and Dwalin knew he needed to be alone for a while. 

 

After all, there was only one person who had ever been able to talk to Thorin when he was in one of his moods without getting mauled to death or thrown in a river, and that person was miles and miles away in a snug little hobbit hole in the ground.

 

The King’s door wasn’t locked, thankfully, as Dwalin did not feel like breaking it down with shear force. Not when those sounds were coming from the other side.

 

He barreled his way through the doorway, axes out and ready for action. His eyes darted around searching out his King, instead finding the room a mess with clothing strewn about and chairs knocked over.

 

And a giant wolf right in the middle of all of it.

 

Shoving all thoughts of ‘why’ or ‘how’ out of his mind, he gave an almighty roar and charged at the thing. It jumped out of the way, leaving grasper to _thunk_ harmlessly into the floor, and gave a half-growl half-bark at the dwarf.

 

“Thorin!” Dwalin yelled, hoping his closest friend could still answer and wasn’t lying somewhere bleeding out.

 

The only reply was the wolf yowling again, clawing and scratching at the floor with its great claws. Dwalin made towards it slowly, noticing the reassuring lack of blood on its fur or paws, or anything else within his immediate line of sight.

 

It barked angrily at him, and again, and the look it gave the guard was just so expressive, so pissed off it could only be at home on the face of-

 

“ _Thorin!?_ That you laddie?”

 

And the yowling was back, but to Dwalin it was both frustrated and pathetic sounding. The eyes, those eyes were Thorin’s and no doubt about that. Just what they were doing glaring out at him from a wolf’s body he had no idea.

 

The door was slammed open a second time that night by both of the princes with Lady Dis following right behind, large battle axe hefted high.

 

“Dwalin, what happened!?” Snapped Dis, glorious and deadly even in her fur nightgown. She advanced cautiously at the sight of the wolf, sliding easily into position at Dwalin’s side. “Where’s Thorin?”

 

“That wolf ate uncle!” Kili cried, hands going to his sword. That brought another round of enraged and pathetic sounds from the beast, and now that he knew to look for it Dwalin could recognize it as one of Thorin’s royal hissy-fits.

 

“Calm down lad,” said Dwalin tersely, “It didn’t eat yer uncle- it _is_ yer uncle.”

 

“What?!” Cried both princes in confusion, looking helplessly back and forth between Dwalin and the wolf.

 

“…Thorin?” tried Dis skeptically, extending her axe to poke at the beast.

 

It glowered at her, baring its fangs in warning, but did not move to strike.

 

“Oh,” breathed the princess, stepping backward, “There _is_ a resemblance.”

 

“How do we know for sure?” Asked Fili.

 

“We’ll have to ask it something!” Kili exclaimed, bouncing nervously, “something only Thorin knows!”

 

“Kili, it’s a wolf. How can it answer?”

 

“Maybe it can talk!”

 

“If it can talk, why hasn’t it said anything yet?”

 

“It’s magic, Fili! All sorts of weird things can happen.”

 

Dis cut off her two bickering children before they gave everyone a migraine, “Thorin, if that _is_ you NOD if you understand.”

 

The wolf huffed exasperatedly at all of them, glare coming back full force.

 

“That’s him.” Decreed Dis.

 

Kili gulped, “It’s not…permanent, is it?” he asked, paling.

 

“It’s a curse Kee, it could be.” Fili stated grimly.

 

Dwalin swore, “I’m going to rip that damned Sorcerer’s head righ’ off and stick it on a pike! And then set the pike on fire! An’ toss the whole thing into tha’ cursed spider-infested-forest for the elves to deal with! An’ then--!”

 

“We have to catch the bastard first, Dwalin.” Dis said, cutting off what was bound to be a long and passionate rant. Not that Dis really wanted him to stop – that was _her brother_ currently clawing at the carpet, after all – but they had more important things to do. “Though I do commend your enthusiasm.”

 

“Obviously he cannot be seen like this, let alone rule.” She continued, “Thorin, do _not_ give me that face, there is no way you can expect to hold court or even do paper work in your state. You know I am right so stop growling or I will get you a collar.”

 

“I’m not ready to be King mother.” Fili said anxiously, “Not on my own at least.”

 

“That’s what you have me for, dear. And Balin –-oh, he’ll have to be informed of the situation as well.”

 

“But what about uncle!” Asked Kili tearfully, “What is he supposed to do? Stay up here until it wears off?”

 

“For now, yes. Until we can come up with something.” Dis mused, beginning to pace thoughtfully. She turned, “Thorin has taken ill. Not deathly so, we do not want to show vulnerability, but he has contracted something non-life threatening but highly contagious.”

 

“You mean…a flu of some kind?” asked Fili.

 

She nodded. “Highly contagious and inconvenient. Enough so that Thorin will not be able to leave his chambers, and will have his will relayed out by his loyal subjects and decreed by myself, in his name.” She clapped her hands together in satisfaction, “No one will know of his true condition, and no one will be able to take advantage of it.”

 

“So Thorin is jus’ going to stay up here and…tear apart the carpets?” Said Dwalin flatly. Even if he did agree with Dis he still felt insulted on behalf of his friend, and as said friend was currently unable to voice such protests, Dwalin certainly was.

 

“Ideally no, but most likely, yes?”

 

Thorin then decided to prove Dwalin wrong, and voice his opinions on the matter very clearly by letting out an ear-splitting _howl_ and springing from his hunched-up position into a full bodied leap, sailing over their heads in a graceful arc. Before any of them had time to do more than duck, Thorin was already back on the ground and bounding across the tiled floor and out the door.

 

“Thorin, _wait!_ ” Dwalin yelled after his king’s retreating form, grabbing his axes and giving chase. He may be the captain of the guards, but there was little chance of him being able to warn them off of attacking a raging wolf snarling through the kingdom. 

 

Not at the rate this one was going.

 

Thorin was remarkably lucky however, that is, ignoring the fact that he was currently a wolf-not a dwarf anymore-as he met very few guards. The ones he did run into were decidedly not expecting a massive beast inside the Mountain, and only had time to curse and scramble for their weapons before he was gone.

 

There were very few people out at this time of night (quarter past midnight, but Thorin did not know it at the time) and somehow he managed to make it to the gates and out of them without serious incident.

 

Thorin flew over the grassy fields that had sprung up after the death of the dragon, running as fast as his new form could. He refused to stay locked in his rooms. He would not be some embarrassing secret, he would not stand idle while others tried to fix this for him. Anger mixed with shame pushed him on ever faster, ever further, as a howl ripped out of him loud and clear into the night.

 

Exiled. Throne denied again. He was barred from his kingdom now. There was no going back without anyone seeing what he was, without everyone knowing that a mere wandering sorcerer had bested a king, proud upon his throne. He would not bear it.

 

This curse needed to be ended, and it needed to be ended _now_.

 

The wolf had a presence of its own, Thorin realized. His emotions were harder to control, they begged to be released from the dwarf’s usual iron hold over them. 

 

The insistent, burning tug in his chest had only appeared as the wolf did. It called to him, drawing him further and further from his kingdom, his home. It was part of the reason he had fled his halls. To hear this call and ignore it was unthinkable.

 

Thorin cursed his new form and ran ever faster. 

 

It was almost midday when he finally stopped, already at the borders of Mirkwood. He simply collapsed in a soft patch of moss hidden by some ferns and low hanging trees.

 

When he awoke a little while later he was shocked to see he had returned to his dwarven form. Though scratched and sore Thorin was still very much himself –though naked and thoroughly bewildered.

 

Hesitant to return in his current state, and unwilling to give into false hope Thorin decided to wait a while and see what happened.

 

And his bruised pride and growling stomach would not allow him to be encountered by another being at the moment.

 

He spent the rest of the day scourging the woods, walking cautiously and slowly as to prevent injury to his bare form. Particularly his feet. But thinking too much about bare-footed people hurt something in his chest, so he focused instead on avoiding detection by wild animals or Mahal forbid – _elves_. If word of this ever got to Thranduil…

 

The few meager berries he found he did not eat, but stared at intensely, debating weather it was worse to eat berries from Mirkwood, or potentially poison himself with berries from Mirkwood. He did not make a fire.

 

Eventually he fell asleep, but it was an uneasy sleep. He awoke in the dark, unfortunately back in his wolf form.

 

He howled furiously, meager hopes dashed, and began to track down the sent of the passing deer he had been forced to ignore earlier on account of his lack of weapons.

 

After he had eaten his fill of the creature the pull was back in his chest, and he continued to follow it westward.

 

Xxx

 

Bilbo first became aware that he was lying on something soft. Not quite bed-soft, something a bit firmer. Had he fallen asleep on the couch again? His eyes opened just a slit as he groggily shifted. He frowned as his head protested at the movement. Actually, his head hurt quite a bit now. As if he had hit it. So did his hip, and he opened his eyes again as he tentatively felt around his body for damage.

 

Or would have, if the sound of fabric rustling off to his right hadn’t drawn his attention. 

 

On a stool seated just beside the coach, was Thorin, now wearing one of Bilbo’s dressing gowns that just barely seemed big enough. He was slouched down, arms resting on his knees, hair dangling around his face like a dark curtain. And he was currently gazing at the hobbit lying in front if him.

 

Bilbo swallowed shakily and scooted up into a sitting position, tucking his legs to his chest. In the back of his mind he registered that someone had covered him with a quilt.

 

“Th--Thorin.” He managed, voice wavering. “I…I fainted again, didn’t I?”

 

The dwarf gave him a tense half smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

 

“So…ah.” He cleared his throat awkwardly and tried to ignore the rising panic, “T-to what do I owe this pleasure?” He choked out more or less coherently.

 

The last time he had seen him, seen _Thorin_ \--the dwarf who the hobbit had trusted above all others, who he had personally defended against the defiler – he had been banished. Under pain of death should he ever dare to show his face again. 

 

The silence dragged on as Thorin seemed reluctant to speak, or unable to voice his thoughts. Thorin often had that problem Bilbo thought distractedly, whenever it was about feelings or emotions the usually smooth-talking and awe-inspiring king became completely tongue-tied. Many times Bilbo had resorted to slowly coxing it out of the dwarf, taking as many breaks or reassuring pats on the back as it took. But right now the hobbit did not think his poor abused heart was up to the task.

 

“I was in the area.” Thorin finally settled on, speaking slowly in a pained voice, “I have business nearby.”

 

“Is, is that so?” Bilbo said, hoping for conversational. His eyes widened as he remembered his _other_ guest. If Thorin found a giant wolf prowling around his home it would not end well for anyone, regardless of Thorin’s poor opinion of the hobbit. Oh dear, hopefully they had not run into each other.

 

“You didn’t happed to see a wolf hanging around here, did you?” He said quickly, “Big, furry, a bit menacing, light blue eyes…” He stopped when he saw the way Thorin was looking at him. “Is there something on my face?”

 

“That…wolf,” Thorin said, eyes dark, “is the reason I’m here.”

 

Bilbo could not stop the sudden spike of disappointment that shot through him. Of course. Why would Thorin drop by to visit a traitorous hobbit? Unless if he meant to finish the job…

 

“Ohh?” He said faintly, feeling entirely too bared and vulnerable before the mighty dwarven warrior king. Even if said king was only wearing a bathrobe. What had happened to his rich furs and fancy tunics anyway?

 

The poor hobbit was seized by a terrible fear of the dwarf. Countless nightmares had featured this king, squeezing the life out of the hobbit, dropping him from the battlements, or even having his soldiers hunt him down and delivered back to Erebor to be executed.

 

And now he was here. In Bag End. Anger clear on his face.

 

Something snapped within the hobbit. He was not about to sit here in his own home cowering before some arrogant dwarven idiot-of-a-king!

 

“With all due respect, your majesty, that’s not much of an answer.” He said, straitening his back, “In fact for barging in here –you’re practically trespassing you know – you at the very least owe me a proper explanation!”

 

The shock on Thorin’s face was a satisfying thing to behold. If the dwarf really thought Bilbo was going to let him walk all over him, he was dead wrong. Not this time. He ignored how his hands were slightly shaking and the not quite banished desire to hide under his bed and continued.

 

“And furthermore, you will not bother my guest nor will you threaten him! Wolf or no, anyone I _allow_ into my house will be treated with respect, do I make myself clear, _your highness?_ ”

 

Thorin visibly winced when Bilbo used his titles, hurt flashing across his face. Well good! That was just fine! Thorin deserved to be hurt, considering all Bilbo had suffered at his hands. Was suffering, oh valar.

 

“Bilbo--“

 

“What, not burglar anymore, I was starting to think that was my name—“

 

“Bilbo!” Thorin roared, startling the hobbit who hunched back against the couch with a squeak, “It was me!” Bilbo blinked in confusion. “From before, on the path up to Bag End.” He continued, gritting his teeth.

 

“B-beg your pardon?”

 

“Don’t you understand?!” The dwarf growled, fits clenching in frustration, “It was _me!_ I was the wolf! I AM THE WOLF!!”

 

_“W-what?!”_

 

Bilbo spluttered uselessly trying and failing to process what Thorin was saying. If he didn’t look so worked up about it, if it hadn’t cost him so much to say it, Bilbo would have thought it completely ridiculous. But this was Thorin, and Thorin rarely joked at all. 

 

“I am the wolf, hobbit.”

 

“But—that’s not—how, even— _what_ —?”

 

“See for yourself, your guest is nowhere to be found.” Thorin said tersely, “You yourself said there was a resemblance between that thing and I.”

 

Bilbo’s heart stopped. Oh. _Oh_ , he had said that, hadn’t he? To the wolf. How would Thorin have known unless if he was there? The eyes! This was no mere resemblance, it was the very same pair! Peering out at him from the form of a wolf. Who had known the way to Bag End, had walked right in, arrogant as ever—

 

Oh valar, Thorin _was_ the wolf.

 

Thorin was the wolf that he had cried on pathetically.

 

And oh, but did that sting. Here he was thinking he had found a friendly shoulder of sorts. But the whole time Thorin had just been laughing at him, mocking his weakness, his vulnerability. Waiting until he had made an absolute fool of himself before reveling his true form and rubbing it in his face.

 

Feeling hopelessly betrayed and humiliated Bilbo barely managed to choke back a sob. In a small, pathetic, wavering little voice he heard himself ask, “The whole time…t-that was you?”

 

Thorin’s face crumpled and he reached out to comfort the shaking hobbit –only to have him violently flinch away from his touch. Bilbo couldn’t help it. The last time Thorin had laid hands on him it was with murderous intent and he just could not bare it right now. No matter how much he both craved and feared it.

 

Thorin’s hand halted in mid-air, slowly curling into a fist before dropping to rest at his side. “It was never my intent to cause you further harm.” He said quietly.

 

Bilbo would have snorted if he wasn’t fighting back another sob. He shakily reached around for a handkerchief and softly blew his nose, taking the time to hide his face if just for a moment. More composed, he drew the quilt off his legs and swung them over the side of the couch.

 

“If you don’t mind, I think I’d very much like that explanation from you right about now.” He said, getting to his feet and shuffling into the kitchen.

 

“And this time we can do it properly over tea.”

 

Xxx


	5. On How (not) to be a Proper Host

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack, sorry about the wait! Midterms happened, and then writer's block happened. But this chapter is a lot longer than it was supposed to be, so please accept this as my apology.
> 
> Btw, check this out! GLORIOUS FAN-ART made by Rhydwin!!  
> http://shaerahaek.tumblr.com/post/63405334202/i-can-explain-for-teadragon-and-her-fic-though
> 
> Oh my goodness, I have fanart. My story has fanart! *flails forever* I especially like Thorin's expression.
> 
> This chapter has possible triggers for mild PTSD

Xxx

 

The rain pattered softly against the rounded window, droplets running down the outside to pool on the sill and spill over the side. Full grey clouds drifted across the sky blotching out the meager autumn light. Leaves whirled about, caught adrift by the cold northern winds, small specks of colour against the grey backdrop.

 

From within the warmth of Bag End, Bilbo sighed and wrapped his hands around his steaming mug of tea, glancing up at his guest.

 

“Well, you might as well start at the beginning.”

 

Thorin nodded. Though it pained the dwarf to speak of his curse he at least owed the hobbit this, after all he had done to the poor creature.

 

He had watched the hobbit numbly reach for the kettle, shuffling around to place it over the fire. Thorin was struck with how fragile Bilbo looked, shoulders hunched, skin pale, dark bags under his eyes and a pinched set to his features. His hands looked lost within his sleeves, though they fit well enough. Was Bilbo always this small?

 

“…I was cursed.” Thorin said at length.

 

Bilbo’s eyes darted up to meet his, brow furrowing in confusion and what Thorin could only hope was concern. “Cursed?” He echoed.

 

“One day a man came, seeking audience.” It was difficult to speak of, but he pushed that thought down and kept going. “He called himself Tuguthul. He said he was from the North and had come to offer his alliance.”

 

Thorin sipped at his tea and contemplated taking one of the sandwiches spread out on the table as a means to avoid talking. But he was a dwarf, and a King, as well as a Durin, and Mahal help him he could have this simple conversation without stalling tactics.

 

“He said he was a sorcerer.” He took a deep fortifying breath, “He said he had great power, great enough to grant my every desire. That I had only to ask and all the riches of Arda would be laid at my feet. All the glory and splendor of my forefathers would be mine, all the lost kingdoms restored, and the dwarves would enter into a new glorious age.”

 

Bilbo met Thorin’s eyes cautiously after the silence had started to stretch too long and too heavily, “But at what cost?” he ventured.

 

“He was to be my _advisor!_ ” Thorin all but spat, “That cursed man wanted my power, my kingdom! To rule Erebor by controlling its king and corrupting the council!” 

 

Thorin let out a slow breath, not missing the way Bilbo had tensed and paled at his outburst. The dwarf unclenched his fists with an effort and laid them flat against the table, not wanting the smaller man to feel any more uncomfortable than he probably already did.

 

“I told him as much. I told him to leave and to never return.” Bilbo shut his eyes briefly in relief, and a small, rueful smile tugged at his mouth. So the dwarf was learning to care for more than riches and power.

 

If only…

 

The rain was louder now, and Bilbo realized he had been musing for quite a while in silence. Thorin had stopped talking. The dwarf now was thoroughly involved in trying to burn a hole into Bilbo’s nice mug with just his eyes if his expression was any indication. 

 

“I—he…” The dwarf’s voice was choked and his hands curled back into fists unconsciously. No matter how Bilbo felt about the king at the moment, his heart ached at the sight of the mighty Thorin Oakenshield trying and failing to remain impassive and stoic at his kitchen table.

 

“He cursed me.”

 

When nothing more was forthcoming, Bilbo ventured a soft “How?”

 

The dwarf shook his head, hair tumbling down over his shoulders at the motion “I do not know.” The fire faintly crackling and the soft patter of rain were the only noises in the smial.

 

“I felt odd, but at first thought nothing of it.” Thorin offered after a while, grimacing at the rough sound of his voice “Later that night I awoke as a beast.”

 

“Can, can you control it?” Bilbo asked, a sick, sinking feeling in his stomach as he thought miserably of his earlier display in front of the wolf. If Thorin had disguised himself from Bilbo on purpose…

 

“No. I cannot.”

 

Bilbo could not help the rush of guilty-relief that came over him at that. He knew he and Thorin had parted badly, but it would have been beyond cruel to trick him like that.

 

“From Midnight to Midday I wear the form of the wolf.” Thorin said bitterly, answering the hobbit’s unspoken question, “And from Midday till Midnight I am myself.”

 

Bilbo blinked, frowning. “That…is unnecessarily complicated.”

 

A smile ghosted over Thorin’s lips, “My thoughts exactly.”

 

That smile. That stupid, _stupid_ smile had Bilbo’s insides doing all kinds of embarrassing acrobatics, fluttering like a bunch of those beautiful butterflies high among the treetops of Mirkwood. Perhaps he had swallowed a few without knowing and only now had they decided to wake? 

 

“…So” Bilbo said, trying to force his thoughts back to the problem at hand and away from his wayward emotions, “you’ll turn back at Midnight?”

 

Thorin nodded, “And stay as a wolf until noon hour.”

 

The dwarf watched as Bilbo’s brow furrowed in the way it did when he was thinking over something particularly troublesome. The expression tugged at something deep within Thorin and he had to look away.

 

“In the market this morning you were a wolf, because it was not yet noon.” His fingers tapped absentmindedly against his mug, hazel eyes narrowing as he gazed unseeingly at the table, head cocked slightly to the side. “I must have stepped outside just as you changed.”

 

And fainted when he’d come back in. Bilbo chose to blame that on spectacularly bad timing. Then again, suppose he had been in the room when his wolf-companion had suddenly turned into a dwarf, _Thorin Oakenshield_ no less! That…was not something Bilbo much wanted to contemplate. No thank you. It would not have been pretty. The fainting was more than enough for everyone.

 

“And…if you don’t mind me asking,” Bilbo began cautiously, “What brings you to the Shire?”

 

Thorin’s eyes grew distant. “The wolf…it calls me.”

 

Bilbo blinked. “Ahh…beg your pardon?” He prompted when the dwarf seemed content to leave it at that.

 

“It has a mind of its own. Ever it pulls me further an further west.” Thorin stared down into the depths of his now-cold tea. “Perhaps to Ered Luin, I know not. Only that I must see it through, and hope it leads me to find an end to this wretched curse.”

 

“About that.”

 

Thorin looked up at the hobbit, now nervously fidgeting with his cufflinks.

 

“Have you thought at all about, well, asking for help? Or, well, not _help_ per say!” Bilbo tacked on hastily at the dwarf’s expression. “But just, going to someone who might, well, who might know about magic? Or have any idea about this sorcerer fellow?”

 

“I will not give an _elf_ the satisfaction of seeing me this way.” Thorin grounded out.

 

“Lord Elrond has been kind to you before, if you recall, he would not hesitate to—“

 

“I will not take his pity, nor be the cause of his amusement!”

 

“Lord Elrond wouldn’t laugh at you if you needed help!”

 

“You still are blind to the treachery of elves, master hobbit.”

 

“But where else but Rivendale has such a large library—“

 

“I will _not_ endure their snide comments on my form!”

 

“Maybe if you could just put aside your _damned_ pride for _one_ moment you wouldn’t even be in this mess at all!” Bilbo yelled, suddenly fed up. All the tension and heartache had been slowly building up, and it had simply become too much. This was Thorin, still being his arrogant, pig-headed, egotistical self. And Bilbo had been on the receiving end of that more times than he cared to remember and knew only too well what poor decisions the dwarf could make on account of his pride. He would not stand by and take that again, not from this dwarf.

 

“You say you want to break your curse? That’s not what I’m hearing! If you wanted to end this, you would go to everyone who might know about such a curse and you would find out what you could and act on it! Not sulk around like a coward, which you have never been, Thorin! Why become one now!?”

 

“ENOUGH!” Thorin slammed his fists down on the table, rattling every dish and causing the cutlery to clatter on the table. 

 

“You have no right to speak to me thusly.” Thorin spat, voice dripping with venom, shaking with rage, “You who have lived a sheltered life, could not possibly hope to understand what my people have been through, have suffered at the hands of such _help_ as you would have me call upon.” 

 

Somehow he was on his feet and advancing on the little hobbit frozen in his seat. “You _dare_ to call me a coward? _You?_ A thief and a betrayer? What do you know of pride or honor? Nothing. You know _nothing_. The words of a traitor are worthless.”

 

Thorin’s large bulk loomed over the small, pale-faced and trembling—

 

_Wait._

 

The hobbit was shaking badly, eyes wide, blood gone from his face, breathing wildly, little fists clenched together painfully and crossed over his chest protectively. He was afraid, Thorin thought with a jolt. And it was with sudden horror that he realized he had been yelling at the hobbit, too caught up in defending his ego to even think about what he was saying.

 

He had lost control. He had lashed out at someone who was only trying to help, and intimidated the smaller male with his greater build-- 

 

Mahal, what had he _said_ to Bilbo?

 

“Bilbo,” He tried softly, but the sound of his voice only caused the hobbit to flinch and shudder violently. He looked so horrified and lost, so vulnerable Thorin could hardly stand to watch. The urge to comfort was too great, that expression did not belong on the face of this kindly little creature, and Thorin vowed to banish it from ever again returning.

 

Bilbo’s hand came up and stopped the dwarf’s before it could rest on his shoulder.

 

 _“…Bilbo.”_ Thorin choked.

 

“No.” Bilbo’s voice trembled ever so slightly. “No, you’ve made your point very clear. Your majesty.” A shudder ran through his small frame, arms crossed over his midsection, hands clenching in a white knuckled grip in his vest. Bilbo inhaled with a deliberate slowness, though it was shaky and done with much difficulty.

 

_Steady, steady. Come on Bilbo, just breath._

 

“I forgot my place.”

 

Those words felt like a knife to Thorin’s heart, and for a moment he feared he would be sick. It was just so wrong. 

 

“I…forgive me.” Bilbo murmured, not able to meet the dwarf’s eyes, “I--I’ve been a terrible host. I’ve gone and completely forgotten your needs. Dear me, what a poor excuse of a hobbit I am.” He chuckled ruefully, an awful, pitiful sound, his forced smile wobbling dangerously around the edges.

 

“T-There’s hot water for a bath if you like, I-I trust you remember where the bathroom is? I’ll see about getting you s-some proper clothes, though I’m afraid they won’t f-fit as well as your own, my father was not nearly as broad as yourself.” Bilbo rambled, hands shaking, heart pounding in his ears even as he began to make a hasty retreat out of the room.

 

“Bilbo, _please_ —“

 

“There’s s-still some food in the pantry, I’ll fix you a quick supper while you freshen up then, shall I? I’m a-afraid I won’t be joining you, as well, I’m not exactly the best of company right now, and I know it’s a-awfully rude, but well, your comfort comes first and I’d only make a further fool of myself I’m sure, and I’m afraid I don’t have much of an appetite at the m-moment!” The words were all coming out in a rush. Bilbo knew he was rambling, but he also knew that he needed to get out of this room and away from this dwarf as fast as he could before he broke composure completely.

 

Thorin moved to block the frantic hobbit as he tried to slip out into the hall. The little creature was panicking, breaths coming too fast, words tumbling together, the colour completely drained from his face. Thorin had seen people in this state before; if they were not calmed they could collapse.

 

“Wait!“

 

A strangled sob escaped the hobbit as he darted under Thorin’s arm and dashed out into the hallway.

 

“J-just leave your d-dishes on the counter, I-I’ll clean them tomorrow!” he called out even as he all but fled from Thorin, trying and failing to banish the image of great, powerful hands closing around his throat in fury.

 

Thorin stood in the archway, grief carved into his features as the door to the hobbit’s bedroom open and shut in the distance. He brought a shaky hand to his forehead covering his eyes. 

 

_“Mahal…”_

 

All he could see was his hobbit’s terrified face, eyes wide with pure horror. He was terrified. Terrified of _Thorin_.

 

He leaned heavily against the wall, legs no longer supporting his weight and collapsing to the floor.

 

“Oh my dear hobbit. What have I _done_ to you?”

 

Xxx

 

The bed was soft. Softer than anything Thorin had felt in a while. Even his kingly bed at Erebor did not feel as this one did. It was a moderate size, but covered liberally with a thick patchwork quit. Perhaps it was so comfortable due to it being so close to the ground? Or was it the simply the rain and harsh winds outside that made it so comforting in contrast?

Whatever the reason, Thorin found himself tucked away in this small, cozy haven, and completely unable to sleep.

 

Over the past two months or so he had become accustomed to rising with the wolf at midnight to cover more ground in his four-legged shape. He would stop around mid-morning, try to find shelter, transform back into his dwarf self at noon, and set up camp and rest until he was forced to transform again at midnight. Needless to say his sleep schedule was a mess, as he was awake for half a night and half a day. And here he was trying to sleep when he would usually be rising.

 

That was why sleep eluded him. He had grown accustomed to his schedule, and to break it after so long had no doubt caused this discomfort.

 

It was in no way related to the other inhabitant of the warm and blessedly dry smial he was staying in.

 

The change came over him swiftly. The thankfully painless process was over soon enough, his bones lengthening or shrinking, the odd tingling of fur began to grow, the reshaping of his jaw and teeth, always distracting. 

 

And Thorin was the wolf.

 

He had noticed almost immediately that his alternate form was different. Aside from the blaring physical differences, Thorin the wolf felt every emotion more fiercely than Thorin the dwarf. This irked him to no end as he had always been taught to suppress his feelings for the betterment of his people (this had varying results, depending on who you asked). 

 

Simply put; the wolf externalized all the things Thorin tried desperately to hide. He could not help but howl aloud in grief and loneliness at his curse. He caught himself letting out high-pitched whines on occasions, usually after something reminded him of his nephews or Erebor. And Thorin was mortified when he had impulsively chased after a butterfly for a couple of yards in excitement, before realizing what he was doing. The frustrated howls that followed were particularly expressive.

 

The wolf also had heightened senses of taste, smell and hearing. Which allowed him to make out the soft, muffled sobs coming from down the hall.

 

Soft paws padded across the room and out into the hallway before he truly realized what he was doing. Bilbo was crying, that much was clear. That was all the wolf needed to know, instincts were screaming at Thorin to stop it, to end those awful sounds from escaping the hobbit.

 

He placed his paw carefully on the door, as if he could touch the being on the other side.

From within he could make out the rustle of fabric as Bilbo turned restlessly. He mumbled something Thorin could not catch, whimpering softly.

 

A nightmare then.

 

“No…” His ears twitched as the hobbit’s tone became more panicked and clearer, “Please…please no…stop! Thorin _please!_ ”

 

At hearing his own name the wolf jerked back, realizing with a sense of dread what Bilbo was dreaming about.

 

“I’m sorry…so sorry…oh _please_ , please no…”

 

Never before had Thorin hated himself as he did then. Hearing such broken pleading from the hobbit, from Bilbo, tore away at his defenses. Even in sleep it seemed the dwarf still managed to hurt the poor creature.

 

He pressed his head against the door, wishing for nothing more than to curl up with the hobbit and protect him from his dreams, warm his body with his own heat, and shield him from any and all harm.

 

But how could he do that when the thing Bilbo feared was Thorin himself?

 

He stayed there, pressed up against the hobbit’s door, long after the muffled cries and sobs had slowly faded away.

 

Xxx

 

The faint autumn sunlight falling on his face through the windows was what roused Bilbo the next morning. He blinked awake blearily, frowning when he felt a slight headache lurking around his temple. It must have been from all the crying—

 

Thorin.

 

Ah. That’s right. Thorin was here. In Bag End. And was a wolf. Except when he wasn’t. More importantly, he was _here_ , and last night Bilbo had—well, he’d nearly blacked out from sheer panic. Not to mention been an absolutely dreadful host.

 

His hands came up to rub his eyes, leaving them spread out over his face as if to block out the unpleasantness. What had come over him? Surely he had seen the dwarf angry before—no doubt of that! Thorin being angry was the reason for their incredibly…uncomfortable relationship, as it was.

 

But for some reason when the dwarf had come towards him, angry and yelling, perhaps gesturing a bit wildly, Bilbo…had feared for his life. In fact, if he was perfectly honest with himself, he hadn’t actually been in Bag End so much as he had found himself magically back on that awful, awful wall. 

 

He had felt those powerful hands closing around his neck, squeezing and shaking him as his teeth rattled and his vision darkened. It was only the angered shouts from below, presumably of Gandalf or Bard that had ended the assault. Thorin had tightened his grip for just a moment before throwing the hobbit’s battered and twitching body down—thankfully on the wall, not over it, as he had threatened.

 

The hard kick to the ribs by an iron tipped boot had put further distance between them, as well as leave an awful bruise that covered nearly his whole right side, and had taken weeks and weeks to fade, and longer to stop the constant pain whenever he so much as stretched.

 

Bilbo knew Thorin had been under the thrall of the dragon sickness. He knew he had only acted so spitefully as a cause of it. That was what he had told himself, night after lonely night, wrapped up in his blankets in bed, or on the really bad nights in his armchair, trying to lull or drink himself to sleep.

 

Thorin had only banished him so cruelly because of the sickness. The dwarf was not in his right mind, and the sting of betrayal was still fresh after all.

 

But these ‘truths’ became harder and harder to believe, if the hobbit had ever truly believed them at all.

 

He had to. Otherwise the shame and the guilt would finally pull him down into the darkness always waiting at the back of his mind, whispering hateful words of self loathing and disgust.

 

Bilbo shook himself angrily. He hadn’t even gotten up and already he was having an emotional meltdown. This would never do. 

 

_Wasn’t he pathetic enough? Why hadn’t Thorin just thrown him off the battlements and been done with it? Surely it was what a traitor deserved._

 

“No. _Stop_.” He said aloud. Thinking like that would get him nowhere in a hurry. “Bilbo Baggins, you are a fool, and are ridiculously sentimental. You will get out of bed, get dressed, and treat your guest hospitably.”

 

Last night…he was just startled. It was just too much to see Thorin yelling at him, calling him ‘betrayer’ and ‘thief’ just like that fateful day on the battlements. It had simply been too similar, and when Thorin had approached, Bilbo’s mind had decided to reenact what it remembered as some perverted form of membrane. 

 

But why had he nearly blacked out with the pure terror of it all? Why had it taken hours before he could stop shaking, stop feeling those hands on his throat, for his pulse to slow and his breath to regulate to some semblance of calm?

 

When Bilbo had finally dressed and washed away the embarrassing tear-tracks and puffiness decorating his face, he crept quietly to his door and softly inched it open, thanking his dear fussy old father for instilling in him the need to have all hinges freshly oiled every few weeks. He peeked out into the hallway. No Thorin. 

 

So far so good. 

 

Oh, but this was _no_ good! He had to great his guest, not play hide-and-go-seek with him! Bilbo gulped hard and pushed the door all the way open, creeping cautiously along the wooden floor. 

 

He was a grown hobbit. He had faced giant spiders and goblins and even stolen from a Dragon for heavens sake! He would _not_ be scared in his own home, nor would he melt into a mushy pile of misery and obsessive self-pitying. And he should not have to be telling this to himself on such a frequent basis either!

 

With that (encouraging?) thought in mind, he took a deep breath and entered through the archway into his kitchen—and stopped dead in his tracks.

 

Apparently the curse was still effective. He blearily realized that it was before noon, so yes, his guest would still be a wolf at this time. A wolf who had his kettle in his mouth, trying to hang it over the fireplace. In other words, Thorin was trying to boil water. To make tea, if the cups set out on the table were any indication.

 

He must have made some kind of sound, because the wolf ( _Thorin_ ) turned his head towards him, gave an awkward nod, and then returned to his work, managing to slip the kettle into position suspended over the heat from the small fire.

 

A small whine snapped Bilbo out of his stupor, and oh dear, he had been staring for a while now, hadn’t he?

 

“G-good morning.” He offered, wincing at how his voice wavered a bit around the edges.

 

His response was a short bark.

 

Thorin had to actually stalk up to the hobbit and nudge the back of his leg to get him moving towards the table. It helped that he was such a large animal, Bilbo’s weight was next to nothing. And that worried Thorin more than he would like to admit. Bilbo did not look nearly as well-fed as he had before, and there was an odd gauntness to his frame somehow.

 

Thorin carefully closed his mouth around the back leg of a chair and pulled it out from the table, looking back and forth between the chair and the hobbit expectantly. 

 

“Ah.” The wolf huffed as he continued to stand there, quietly flailing. Thorin had made him tea. Thorin had made him tea as a wolf, without hands. Not just the _how_ , but the _why_ was baffling as well! Was this a peace offering? 

 

Finally to Thorin’s relief the hobbit sat down, and even if he had the most bewildered expression on his face, it was a start. Hopefully he was one step closer to making up for terrifying the little creature. And saying all those hateful things. Deep shame welled up within the dwarf, and he vowed to at least try and redeem himself to this one person who always ended up on the receiving end of his temper.

 

“I—ah,” Bilbo cleared his throat nervously. He knew the wolf was still Thorin. It just seemed a bit unfair to talk to someone who could not respond in kind. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior last night, or well, yesterday really. I’m afraid you’ve caught me at…something of a bad time.”

 

That was one way of putting it, Bilbo supposed. He twisted and picked at his sleeves unconsciously.

 

A cold nose prodded at his hands, and the wolf nudged his great head right onto the hobbit’s lap and made himself comfortable. Bilbo froze, unsure of what Thorin expected him to do, before hesitantly brushing his fingers along the soft, lush fur. Thorin whined contentedly at the contact, nuzzling into the welcome sensation the fingers provided and secretly enjoying the sent of the hobbit.

 

They sat like that in a semi-comfortable silence until Bilbo jumped up to get the kettle, insisting as it was very hot by this point (hence the boiling water) and out of the two of them he was the only one with hands. He whipped up a quick breakfast, giving Thorin a generous amount of bacon and saving the scones for when the dwarf was, well, a dwarf again. It just seemed cruel to give him something he could not eat neatly without hands.

 

“Thorin?” The small male began, up to his elbows in dishwater and suds. “This sorcerer fellow you mentioned, do you remember what he was wearing at all?”

 

The wolf raised a quizzical brow at him.

 

“I don’t mean details or anything--stop looking at me like that! I just wondered was he, ah, wearing blue by any chance?”

 

It was red, but Thorin could hardly tell him that like this. He shook his head instead.

 

“No? Oh well, there goes that theory.”

 

Thorin barked, spotting a red dishtowel hanging from the counter.

 

“Hmm?”

 

He carefully placed his paw on the towel, tapping it to get Bilbo’s attention.

 

“You…want to dry?” Thorin growled in frustration. 

 

“Ok, ok no drying!” Bilbo said quickly, waving his hands about defensively.

 

Thorin tapped the towel again with his paw and then prowled over to his host. Bilbo squeaked in alarm as his stomach was suddenly pawed at, Thorin’s teeth gently pulling on his blue waistcoat.

 

“Thorin! Thorin, what are you doing?!”

 

He growled again, the hobbit stilling and looking down at him quizzically.

 

“My waistcoat?”

 

Thorin yipped in agreement.

 

“My waistcoat…and the towel?”

 

He yipped again.

 

“Umm…yes, that’s, that’s very perceptive of –“

 

Thorin snarled. He was going to bash his head into the wall in pure frustration at his rate.

 

“Sorry! I’m sorry, I’m just not getting the connection.” Bilbo pleaded at the wolf, “What about the towel and my waistcoat?”

 

When Thorin only glared dejectedly at the floor Bilbo decided to take the initiative. He really did feel sorry for the poor thing. As a linguist he understood all too well how frustrating it was to try and communicate, only to be misunderstood or dismissed as a simpleton. His attempts at Sindarian in Rivendale were testament to that.

 

“They’re both fabric? The designs…the colour?” His eyes widened, “Oh! Oh, _that’s_ what you were saying! The red and blue! The sorcerer wasn’t wearing blue, he was wearing red! Is that what you were telling me?”

 

Thorin yowled tiredly in agreement from where he was laid out on the floor, head resting on his paws.

 

“Oh, I _am_ sorry I didn’t understand. Believe me, I know how awful it feels to be misunderstood. Not every elf is patient enough to listen to a Halfling struggle with Sindarian, you see. And I did try to practice both times I was in Rivendale.

 

Thorin huffed, affronted both by the idea of his hobbit trying so hard to learn an _elven_ language, and even more so by the idea that the elves would slight him so. Bloody tree-shaggers.

 

“Do stop growling, Thorin, I am quite aware of how much you hate elves.”

 

“Gandalf mentioned other wizards, a white one and two blue ones, aside from himself and Radagast.” He explained, “I thought maybe this was one of the blue wizards, but I suppose he’d have to be wearing blue in that case. I don’t think there are any red wizards, so maybe he’s something else?”

 

Thorin lazily watched the hobbit mutter to himself as he finished with the dishes. It was strangely relaxing to just sit there, watching Bilbo doing simple, mundane, domestic everyday tasks. He would have liked it more if he could lend a hand, but seeing as he didn’t have a hand to lend at the moment he was left watching. 

 

He would help, though, once he was himself again. Thorin would scrub all the heavy pots and pans with the natural muscle and strength of his heritage, saving the softer hobbit the trouble. His greater height would allow him to easily reach the top shelves, which Bilbo needed to use a stepladder to get at. Firewood could be chopped without a second thought, never mind his hobbit getting his nice, soft hands callused and worn by using some second-rate axe…

 

“Thorin,” began Bilbo, turning, “I was thinking…” He stopped short, breath caught in his throat.

Thorin was curled up on the kitchen floor, head resting on his heavy paws, belly slowly moving up and down with each breath. And though it sounded almost like a soft growl, he was definitely snoring. 

 

Bilbo’s hands came up to his mouth as his heart melted at the sight. To see Thorin so relaxed, so vulnerable was a very rare thing indeed. During the journey they had always been careful, keeping watch and sleeping with weapons close at hand. Bilbo highly suspected that the king slept with one eye open. So to see Thorin so comfortable, and in his own little smial at that…

 

Bilbo blushed and turned away. The thought that Bag End was a comforting place to the dwarf was a warming one, and he swelled with pride for his father for building it to be so accommodating. 

 

Thorin did look rather like a large and fuzzy rug, lying there like that. A very comfortable one. The type you could snuggle up to in front of the fire and lazily run your fingers through…

 

Bilbo started. Where did that come from?! Mortified at his thoughts he muttered aloud, “Thorin is a _dwarf_ , not a _rug!_ ”

 

Satisfied, he glanced at the clock. A Quarter past ten in the morning.

 

“Right, yes, well, I’ll just be out in the garden, then.” He told the slumbering wolf, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb him, “Until, you know, well, yes. Right.”

 

And that was quite enough sputtering for a whole month. He ducked out of his front door to spend the next little while or so in his garden. He was not hiding. Not hiding at all, thank you. He was simply having some very much-needed quiet-reflective time, working with something that did not make his stomach flutter nervously whenever he so much as looked at it.

 

Bother it all!

 

 

Xxx


	6. The Worries of a King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 5:32am, I'm gonna edit this when I get up tomorrow. 
> 
> nighty night...zzzzzzzz z z zzz zz *drool*

Xxx

 

“Good Day Mr. Bilbo!”

 

Bilbo squeaked and spun around, a clumsy movement given his kneeling position in his garden bed. Hamfast Gamgee was looking over his garden gate at him.

 

“Oh, Mr. Gamgee. I didn’t see you there.” He said breathlessly, clutching at his chest and willing his heart to stop pounding.

 

Hamfast’s kind face crinkled into concern.

 

“Here now, is something the matter? It’s not like you to scare like that.”

 

Yes, something very much was the matter. That something went around calling itself the King Under the Mountain and a slew of other prestigious titles, as well as insulting and glowering at just about everyone and everything. And was currently stuck in a wolf’s form until noon, which should be anytime now.

 

But Bilbo could hardly tell that to his friend.

 

“Ah, well, I was just thinking about something. Lost track of myself I suppose, you know me, always daydreaming.” He chuckled, a bit ruefully.

 

“Aye, you’re a right scholarly lad, always thinking about something.” The older hobbit agreed, though the frown still stayed on his face. “Bless me, Mr. Bilbo, but you should try an’ get some more sleep. Your colour is a bit off, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”

 

“You’re probably right,” Bilbo said, rubbing at the back of his head self-consciously. He knew he must look a sight. “I’m afraid last night was not exactly the most restful of nights I’ve had. I don’t suppose I’m used to entertaining much anymore, either…” He added on as an afterthought, mumbling to himself.

 

“Entertaining? You mean someone dropped by last night?” Hamfast asked incredulously, thick eyebrows disappearing under his straw hat.

 

“I have company at the moment,” Bilbo said quickly, hoping to curtail any further scandalous gossip about himself having questionable company at indecent hours of the night, “though he’s traveled a long way and I do not want to disturb him yet.”

 

“Company.” Hamfast frowned, “Not the same kind of company that ran off with you last time?”

 

“He is one of my former companions, yes.”

 

“Beggin’ your pardon, but I can’t think your guest would be good company if they dragged you off somewhere wild and dangerous only to make you find your own way back!”

 

“Gandalf escorted me—“

 

“And what good did it do? The state you were in when you came back, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was like you were dead on your feet.”

 

It was true, and Bilbo knew it. Despite the wizard’s escort the trip home had completely drained the hobbit. Seeing all the places he had passed before in the company of his dwarf friends had been devastating. It was disorienting, seeing it all from the wrong angle, and made more so without the familiar company. It only served to highlight how very different this journey was from his previous one. Somehow despite his cozy hobbit hole waiting at the end instead of a dragon, he almost despaired more at facing Bag End than he had at facing Smaug. 

 

What if he returned and nothing had changed? How would he even know it had happened at all? He would just go back to being plain old, Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, perhaps with some stories to tell and with much of his reputation in shambles, but still just Mr. Baggins. 

 

What about the burglar who had stolen from Smaug the Golden himself? What of the Stinging-fly, the Clue-finder, Luck-wearer and the Barrel-rider (though he was not too partial to barrel-rider considering all the trouble that one had caused)? What of (and his throat tightened at the thought) _Mr. Boggins_ , as Kili and Fili had playfully taken to calling him? Would that hobbit simply disappear, those parts of him that had been awakened, would they go back into slumber?

 

How could Bilbo possibly go back to the carefully conducted Shire where behavior was carefully monitored and gossiped over at any and all times? Conversations were conducted out of pure propriety, and to refuse or to excuse yourself without conversing for the set amount of time was positively scandalous.

 

Looking back, much of it was so insincere. Various family members would invite themselves over to tea and try to get the latest gossip or worm out Bilbo’s treasured recipes, all the while stating that they were just checking up on him. Sometimes a relative would drop by with a basket of scones or pastries and then ask for a ridiculous favor, or heavily hint at it, as protocol demanded that he repay them in kind for their gift.

 

For all that it had initially flustered him, the bluntness of the dwarves had become an unexpected relief. Sometimes he liked to imagine greeting his busybody Aunt Pansy with a dwarven head-but or a remark on her slowly increasing girth. Dwarves would often exchange fond insults as a greeting between close relatives, Dwalin had been teaching him. And it would be so satisfying to simply grab sting and throw Lobelia from Bag End the next time she tried to imply it should be hers, or to challenge her to a duel for the ownership.

 

When he had returned to the Shire, it was not as smooth a transition as it could have been. Despite the auction of Bag End and the loss of his respectability, the Shire had lost much of its charm. The place itself was still beautiful and peaceful, and he spent many a day simply exploring and indulging in it. It was the people and the company that was all wrong. And all too soon any initial relief he may have felt at returning to his cozy, homily smial and tame countryside was overshadowed with the fussy, uptight and utterly respectable social behavior code.

 

So, yes, to make a long story short Bilbo had looked quiet awful after his initial return. Gandalf had fretted at leaving him alone, and put off his departure as long as he could. Even then, he had promised to check up on the hobbit and insisted he send word to the wizard should anything happen to him. 

 

“Ack, Mr. Baggins, I know it’s not my place to say so—“

 

“Hamfast, you know I value your opinion –“

 

“But it would be a right shame to loose you again. You’re not taking care of yourself. Not anymore. And if this fellow here’s to blame, than no hospitality of mine goes with him.”

 

“It’s not, look, we didn’t part on the best of terms.” Bilbo said, fingers tugging anxiously on his cufflinks.

 

“So whys he think he can just burst in on ye and take advantage of you again?”

 

“He’s not, he’s, it’s complicated! He’s going through something right now and doesn’t know who he can trust.”

 

_Who are you trying to convince? Your neighbor or yourself?_

 

Hamfast seemed to pick up on his uncertainty as well. “He’s using ye, I still say. You were always too kind for your own good.”

 

Bilbo opened his mouth to protest but nothing came forth. After a moment he closed it again, wringing his hands behind his back unable to meet the eyes of his friend.

 

“Just know, Mr. Bilbo, that if you ever need anything that my door is always open to you.” Hamfast added gently, once it was clear the younger hobbit wasn't about to say anything. 

 

“I…” To his mortification, Bilbo felt his throat constricting and his eyes watering. “T-thank you Hamfast. Thank you.” He scrubbed angrily at his eyes, “That means a lot to me.”

 

“Ack, think nothing of it. Tis the least I can do, and I should have done something sooner in the first place.” Hamfast nodded at him and straightened his hat on his head as he took his leave, turning back down the lane and muttering about foreign folk and common courtesy. The other hobbit watched him unseeingly, still standing in the middle of his garden. He had a lot on his mind, after all.

 

To know that someone would defend him, to go out of his way to do so even, well, that was something Bilbo had not had in a very long time. His hands shook a little, and he felt the need to sit down, never mind his trousers or that he was still in his front garden.

 

Thorin was an honorable dwarf. That much had always been apparent. He wouldn’t use Bilbo like that. 

 

But on the other hand, Bilbo was a traitor, one personally banished by the king himself. And for stealing the _arkenstone_ , of all things. There was not much else that held so much symbolic value to the dwarves of Erebor than that. Thorin had every right to use him.

 

The hobbit frowned. That was wrong as well. If Thorin had come to Hobbiton to demand Bilbo let him use Bag End he would have done so. But he hadn’t. Yelled at him, yes. Insulted and belittled him, yes, that too. But ordered or demanded him, no. Thorin had done no such thing. Which only served to confuse Bilbo further.

 

Thorin had made it clear just what he thought of his former burglar. He had been quite vocal about it last night. But then why had he bothered to make him tea? Why had he defended him against Lobelia?

 

Bilbo realized with a jolt that it wasn’t the dwarf who had done that but the wolf. The wolf had been almost protective, even affectionate towards the hobbit. It had nuzzled right up to Bilbo twice now and made those little whining noises and everything! That kind of behavior was about as far apart from the dwarf king as it got. Thorin was sparse with his affections. Even among kin he was always somewhat reserved, favoring a firm clasp of the shoulder or forearm to a hug.

 

Though the hug Bilbo had been enveloped in atop the carrock was one of the warmest embraces he had ever received, and may or may not have prominently featured in some of his more wistful fantasies…

 

Back to the point, it was almost as if Thorin had developed separate personalities. One was the stoic, grim faced, stormy browed dwarf Bilbo had known (and…well, lo—been fond of) and the other was a great, fluffy wolf who seemed to have no reservations about personal space, or invading it to provide comfort to distressed hobbits.

 

It was easy to be around the wolf. Despite the communication issues that were inevitable as, well, _wolf_ , he was easy to read and open with his emotions.

 

As for Thorin the dwarf…well. Bilbo was dealing. More or less. Probably less all things considered. The hobbit was still unfortunately jumpy around him (the nightmares and fits of rage were not helping) and found it increasingly uncomfortable to be in his presence. 

 

Bilbo was of course furious at the frustrating creature for showing up out of the blue and then insulting him after Bilbo had gone out of his way to accommodate him. Typical Thorin, throw someone’s selfless attempts to help right back in their face. Why, he should have thrown Thorin right out of his cozy smial in the middle of that storm last night and he would have deserved it too!

 

_Thief. Traitor._

 

He sucked in a shaky breath. That’s right. He had betrayed his friends, friends he thought of more like family. He had gone behind their backs, betrayed them all. Betrayed _Thorin_.

 

What right did a _traitor_ have to complain?

 

_What right did a traitor have to live?_

 

Something cold and wet landed on his nose, and he blinked, looking around startled. Soft grey clouds had filled the late morning sky, and there was no trace of the weak sun that had drawn Bilbo outside in the first place. Rain was pattering down, drops sporadic, making dark blotches on the garden gate. A chill wind rushed up from behind the hobbit, catching his jacket and scattering his curls. He shivered, rising to his feet and patting down his dirty trousers, tugging his jacket closer as the wind picked up.

 

He should head inside, he knew. No good would come of him staying out here, standing in his garden in the rain and the chill. But there was a wolf in his smial, or even more troubling a dwarf. It must be noon by now, or almost that time. He worried his lower lip. Was he ready to face the dwarf king? After his pitiful performance last night and Thorin’s verbal attack?

 

Ready or not, he would have to face him. It was just plain rude to leave without telling a guest were you were off to, or leaving them alone in the house without knowing where everything was or having offered them permission to take whatever they’d like. Not that Bilbo was entirely sure Thorin deserved his politeness or goodwill, but it was so ingrained in the hobbit it felt wrong to treat a guest any differently.

 

But Thorin Oakenshield was no mere guest. They had been companions, friends, _close_ friends even, well at least it had seemed that way at the time. The point was, when it came down to it they had spent months in each others presence, walking, eating, cooking (more on Bilbo’s part), fighting (more on Thorin’s part) searching for firewood and laying bedrolls in the flattest and driest spots they could find. This dwarf was in no way a mere guest.

 

Perhaps that was what hurt the most. Such bonds as these, they could not be so easily broken. Perhaps it was not even an intimate bond, per say, but it was one born of daily familiarity and of shared troubles and dangers. From the tedious tasks of setting up camp every night, to cursing the ill weather, to the rare times that they had come across an inn and thoroughly indulged in every comfort from ale to baths to warm beds. It took some deeply hateful act for companions like that to truly despise each other. 

 

Acts like the ones Bilbo had committed. And he was back to the arkenstone and betrayal bit. Perfect.

 

He was also getting soaked. The shoulders of his jacket had turned a darker shade of plum, and his hair was hanging in strings, dripping down into his eyes. Bilbo gave a soft curse at his inattention and hurried inside, dwarf kings be bothered.

 

Xxx

 

Thorin Oakenshield was not a worrier. He was not one to sit and fret about a problem, over thinking it until it was grossly blown out of proportion and ultimately consumed his person, leaving him paralyzed with anxiety. Some had called him a brooder, and perhaps that was true as he had never taken to being forced into inaction when there was something that needed doing.

 

He knew he had a tendency to dwell on his troubles, sometimes perhaps when he should be joining in with the conversation. His nephews had informed him repeatedly of how he often bored holes into objects or would try to stoke the fire with only his focused gaze as he dwelled on such troubles. But he was not one to sit and worry about useless little things, fidgeting anxiously and jumping when the smallest of sounds jarred him out of his thoughts.

 

Which is why right now he was not worrying, but brooding _agitatedly_. Well, that’s what he told himself.

 

He had woken from his unintended nap on the kitchen floor feeling much more rested than he had before. He had been up late into the night keeping watch over the hobbit’s door, and after he had slept fitfully until sunrise, choosing to get up instead of tossing and turning until his host awoke.

 

He knew he needed to apologize for his despicable behavior from last night. And what did a hobbit like first thing in the morning if not tea? It took a while, but eventually Thorin managed to maneuver his clumsy form to first snatch the kettle, fill it with water, and then practice setting it on the fire. He had then dragged wood over in his mouth to build a fire in the fireplace and eventually managed to light a match using only his paws and mouth. No small feat. Setting the table had been a challenge, what with the dainty cutlery and teacups and him balancing on his hind legs and nosing around with his mighty head. But he had managed it, and more importantly Bilbo had seemed pleased.

 

But now he had a problem. He had not seen the hobbit since he had fallen asleep. 

 

He awoke to find the kitchen empty. Respecting Bilbo’s wishes to be alone, Thorin at first had not decided to search the hobbit out and instead when back to his room to curl up on the bed. But as the day wore on and he had transformed into his dwarf self again, there was still no sign of the little creature.

 

Thorin dressed quickly in the clothes Bilbo had lain out for him last night, thankful they fit, if not perfectly, and stalked the house to search out his hobbit.

 

But he was nowhere inside. Not in his study, nor in his room. Nor in any other room.

 

Thorin reasoned he had perhaps gone somewhere on an errand. But the front window by the door had shown only cold grey, unhobbit-friendly sky and a dampness if the leaves sticking to the pathway were any indication. However, as there was still no Bilbo to be found, he must have either taken shelter in some other Shire building or else was still out there in the cold and chill.

 

Then it had started to rain. Lightly at first, then picking up with the wind, making the leaves swirl about and plaster themselves to any wall or vertical surface they happened to come against.

 

The dwarf recalled Bilbo’s pale and drawn pallor and the odd vulnerable set to his features and did not like to think much on him being out there. Was he dressed warm enough? Was he wearing a scarf or a water proof cloak? A glance at the coat rack showed that there was indeed one such cloak hanging there, dry as anything and not being worn by a certain golden-haired hobbit. Perhaps Bilbo had more than one cloak and this was the spare? But what if it wasn’t…?

 

Unbidden, images of his hobbit out in the rain wearing just his light jacket filled Thorin’s mind. The little creature, completely drenched with rain in his eyes, was trudging tiredly up a muddy path. The downpour had made it slick and unstable, and Bilbo slipped, loosing his footing and going down with a yelp. He scrapped his knee on the way down, catching it on an exposed rock and crying out in pain as he landed in the mud.

 

Thorin was on his feet with his hand on the doorknob before he realized what he was doing. He growled in frustration, hands clenching furiously as he tried to ground himself in the present.

 

Bilbo was fine, he could take care of himself! It was the _Shire_ for Mahal’s sake, not the bloody wilds! 

 

But in the back of his mind his imaginary hobbit was laying prone on the muddy path, trying to get his feet under him and wincing every time he so much as moved his leg. He slid uselessly back to the ground, crying out in pained frustration as he was unable to rise without putting pressure on his knee. His attempts only served to get more mud into his wound.

 

Suddenly warg howls sounded in the distance, and even as Bilbo’s head spun around in panic a whole pack of the vile creatures had crested the hill, their riders yelling and jeering. Atop his white warg sat Azog the Defiler, smirking cruelly as he led the charge, bearing down on the terrified, defenseless little hobbit unable to run---

 

“NO!” Thorin punched the wall so hard the pictures hung in the den rattled. 

 

Mahal, what was _happening_ to him? Azog was dead, had been for almost two years now, by both his hand and the hobbit’s. Why was he cursed with these idiotic scenarios playing out in his mind!?

 

Regardless, the urge to rush outside and track the hobbit down was becoming hard to resist. His fingers twitched to hold the smaller man, make sure he was hale and whole and get him out of the rain and into the warm and dry of Bag End.

 

But what if Bilbo returned while Thorin was away? Would he think the dwarf had abandoned him, run off without a word? What of an injured and chilled Bilbo returning to an empty house, limping and pale, unable to properly care for himself in his state and unable to call for help? 

 

Bilbo would look around the smial, calling out for Thorin but have naught but his own voice echo back to him. He tried to limp further into the house but a wet cough caught him off guard, and as he raised his hands to his mouth his balance toppled and he fell to the ground in a painful heap. As his body shook with the force of his coughs the unlocked door slowly creaked open revealing Azog the Defiler looming in the doorway. Bilbo raised wide, fearful eyes to the monstrous figure towering over him causing the orc lord to chuckle darkly, mouth forming a hideous grin as he reached out a clawed hand to grab at the hapless hobbit –

 

“ARRGGH!!” 

 

So naturally, Thorin had found himself by the doorway in a chair, _not_ worrying or fretting, with a pile of dry towels in his lap and his eyes fixed on the door.

 

When the door did finally open, the dwarf was caught completely off guard, and for a second actually expected to see his deceased, one armed enemy sneering down at him.

 

Bilbo shivered as the warmth of the smial hit his frame, and he quickly locked the door behind him to keep the chill and damp out. He was wiping his feet on the mat and rubbing his hands up and down his arms for friction when a noise startled him.

 

It was Thorin. Bilbo jumped letting out a small squeak of surprise.

 

“T-Thorin!” He stammered, though more from nerves than from the cold. “What—oh.” He paused taking in the dwarf’s appearance. He was dressed in Bungo’s old clothing Bilbo had hung on for just such an occasion, and while they fit they certainly hung a bit tighter than they would on your average hobbit. In fact there was not much average about any of Thorin when he wore such, form fitting clothes…Bilbo gulped, his face heating.

 

“Bilbo, where have you been?” The dwarf all but swarmed him, surging to his feat towel in hand.

 

“Been?” he asked perplexed at Thorin’s thunderous expression, “I’ve just been out in the garden for a while—“

 

“In this weather?!” 

 

“It was nice when I went out.” Bilbo said, defensively, trying to clam the dwarf down, “I just lost track of the time a little.”

 

“Bilbo, you’re soaked. You were not even wearing your cloak!” At that Thorin stepped right up to him, and Bilbo was far to startled to do much else than stare. The dwarf seemed to remember himself right at the last moment and halted, looking down at the towel in his hands longingly. He glanced up at Bilbo.

 

“…May I?” The dwarf asked gently, raising the towel.

 

“Ah, y-yes?” The smaller male stuttered, still in a state of shock.

 

Thorin slowly brought the towel up level with the hobbit’s curls, and after shooting another searching look at the hobbit he gently placed it on top of the curly head.

 

Bilbo realized with a jolt that Thorin had expected him to flinch away in fear, and he was even more surprised to realize he felt no such need. After a minute Bilbo relaxed, nodding slightly and urging the dwarf to continue.

 

Thorin realized a breath he had not known he was holding, and finally ( _finally!_ ) began to towel his hobbit dry, starting with his wet curls. 

 

“What were you thinking, Bilbo,” he admonished quietly as his hands molded the towel against the golden curls, “Going out like that. You could have caught a chill if you have not already done so.”

 

Bilbo closed is eyes to avoid the towel partially hanging into his face. “I haven’t caught a chill Thorin, I was only outside for a little while.”

 

“It was at least three hours. Is that what you would call a short while?”

 

Bilbo stared mutely as Thorin discarded the now damp towel and reached back to a pile of dry ones on the floor behind him.

 

“…Three hours?” Goodness, had he really been out that long? Was the majority of that before or after his talk with Hamfast? Oh dear, perhaps he had been sitting there in his front garden, mulling over his thoughts in plain sight of the neighbors for quite some time. Oh dear.

 

He was startled out of his thoughts by large, warm hands carefully wrapping a towel around his shoulders. The hands lingered and Bilbo looked up at the king.

 

“You need to take better care of yourself, Master Hobbit.” He said in a low voice, hands tightening momentarily before releasing the smaller being. His stomach did an odd flip at that and something tugged at his heart.

 

_Oh…_

 

“Now go properly dry off and change into some dry clothes. I will not have you catching cold while I can help it.”

 

“Y-yes, Thorin.” Bilbo stuttered helplessly as he was gently nudged towards his bedroom and given an armful of dry towels. It was the lingering looks of concern and worry from the dwarf that sent the hobbit off into a whole new world of confusion

 

Where on Yavana’s green earth did _that_ behavior come from?! Bilbo could only hope it stayed. They might even end up have a decent conversation that did not end in yelling or tears at this rate!

 

Xxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Thorin is bit protective. And he has vivid nightmare-daydreams where he imagines crazy, unrealistic, over-the-top scenarios of all the bad things that might be happening to his hobbit when he's not around.
> 
> Ok, so I was laughing the whole time I wrote that bit. Thorin is _such_ a worrier, he even resurrects Azog just to worry about random stuff. He's been doing this for years by the way, but they have featured his nephews, Balin, Dwalin, pretty much anyone he cares about.
> 
> Just a quick heads up, the next chapter will probably be a short one. It has to be, because I need it to end at a certain part to make it really epic for the next chapter. Which will have action! Like a fight scene and everything (not just a hobbit and dwarf having emotional fall-outs). So yeah, heads up for that. :)


	7. The Secret Affairs of Hobbits and Dwarves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited!
> 
> Check out even _more_ awesome artwork from Rhydwin!! http://shaerahaek.tumblr.com/post/66821853550/bilbo-and-wolf-thorin-inspired-by-this-lovely
> 
> I am so sorry it took so long. I had crazy finals. But I am done now! I have almost a whole month off, and with a bit of luck the story will really get to pick up!
> 
> We've had a nice little break from the larger plot these last few chapters, but now I'm afraid it's rather *ahem* caught up with them. 
> 
> Enjoy! And thank you everyone for all the hits and kudos and comments! :)

“My Lady, The sorcerer has been captured!”

“What?” 

Lady Dis, sat upon the throne of Erebor in her brother’s stead, staring incredulously down at the page before her. 

“Captain Dwalin is bringing him in as we speak, your Majesty.”

“This is good news, indeed.” She said, “I would have words with that man.” The princesses’ eyes darkened as she absently stroked her battle axe resting by the throne.

It had been a week now. A whole miserable week since her idiot brother had seen fit to throw a royal tantrum and charge off into the Mahal forsaken wilds, still trapped in the body of a wolf. As tempting as it had been to send guards after him, discretion was of the utmost importance in this…delicate situation. And with any luck, Thorin would come to his senses and return to Erebor to sulk in safety where they could find him if the cure to his curse did happen to show up. 

Of course this being Thorin, the chances of him returning on his own were quite slim. And the Princess was worried that he would do something stupid and get himself hunted down by a bunch of men somewhere if left to his own questionable devices.

They had stuck with the story that the King had contracted an illness, probably from one of the foreign visitors, and while he was not deathly ill he was highly contagious and as such had to be kept in seclusion. So far it had worked, the only ones who had known what had truly transpired were those of Thorin’s loyal company.

Dwalin was the only one she would trust with finding her brother, and as he had been occupied with hunting down that cursed sorcerer he had sworn to bring before the wrath of the crown, a search party for Thorin was out of the question.

Until now.

The doors swung open and for the second time, in walked the sorcerer. This time, however, he was flanked by a half dozen dwarven guards and the growling Captain.

“M’Lady.” Dwalin said gruffly, respectfully nodding his head, “The sorcerer,” he spat, tugging the man forwards by a chain hanging from his bound hands.

“How kind of you to grace us with your presence.” Dis drawled, lovingly fingering the sharp edge of her axe. “What a pleasure it is to have you in our halls once again, oh Great Sorcerer. You must stay for a longer while than at your last visit, I insist, I will not accept no for an answer.”

If the man was bothered by her barely concealed threats he did not show it. 

“Tell me,” He began, voice echoing eerily, just the slightest hint of a sneer showing on his face “just how is his majesty?”

The dwarf stiffened, fingers clenching on her axe. 

“Leave us,” She said to the guards, “Stand by the doorway until I say otherwise,”

They looked uncomfortable, but the rest of the guard turned and walked back to the entrance way, well out of earshot of spoken conversation, but still within shouting range. Only the Dwarf Lady, Dwalin, Balin and Bifur remained. 

More of the company had been helping out and trying to stay around the throne room to support Dis in case of emergency. Word could not, under any circumstances, get out about Thorin’s transformation. 

Erebor was politically unstable. It had been ever since the Battle of Five Armies. While none would deny the right of the line of Durin to rule, some had thought to question Thorin as King. For one, he had spent most of his life on the road, and as such had no great love for the old aristocracy and previous council members. He did not seek to restore them to power but had appointed new councilors and awarded rank through actions taken after the fall of Erebor, not before. This had made him less than popular with the old elite, albeit well liked by those who remembered his kindness through the years of exile.

Then there was the matter of his Gold Sickness. While all admired his fierce dedication he had shown towards Erebor and his people, there had been true madness in his eyes and lust for gold. Some argued that a King unable to see beyond his gold was no king at all, and many feared a repeat of king Thrór.

And finally there were the isolationists who remembered only too well the scorn and disrespect they received in their exile from other races and loathed the fact that the men and elves were now Erebor’s official allies. According to them, all other races were wicked and deceitful, only the mighty race of the Khazad was pure, and it was there that they should find power and happiness. There was even talk of forming a ‘Khazad Co-Prosperity Alliance’ going around, though it was not overly popular. According to these racial advocates the bounds between all dwarven Kingdoms needed to be strengthened and sacred, dwarves for dwarves, all else fell away.

Between the traditionalists, isolationists, and those fearing a return of the Gold Sickness, the throne of Erebor was still a contested subject. In fact many had been most vocal about Daín taking the throne. Nori had certainly been busy, finding more and more small groups with their very opinionated views, trying to decided if any of them would prove dangerous or not.

For the most part the people were happy, but the few voices of protest were still heard. If word reached the general population that Thorin had been turned into a wolf, and had then proceeded to run off to Mahal-knows-where, Dis would not put it past them to riot.

Hence the guards waiting by the door while the dwarf lady tested her patience by not knocking out all of that damned sorcerer’s teeth.

“You will change my brother back to his normal form this very instant, or else I will have you strung up for target practice. Knife and axe throwing practice.”

Something she had said made the man smile in a most unpleasant way. “This very instant? But My Lady, it is well past midday, is it not?”

“It is indeed past midday, your intellect is simply humbling.” Lady Dís growled, “And if you truly can think of nothing better to do than remark upon the passing of time I shall break your fingers until you undue your magic, sorcerer.”

“Ah, but your Majesty,” Tuguthul said, lips curling, “How do you know that I’ve not already lifted the curse?”

Dis started, realizing with sudden horror that this awful man knew her brother was not in the Mountain. Her hands curled into fists.

“Dwalin,”

The heavy thud of the Captain’s boot onto the human’s back was not as satisfying as it should have been, even if the man did end up on the floor, necklace clunking under him. 

“I would not be so eager,” The sorcerer said, slowly rising to his feet, “to harm someone with such power over your brother.”

Dwalin froze, as did the rest.

“I could make it so much worse,” The man said, eyes glowing eerily, his red streaked hair contrasting with his pale skin and dark shadows around his eyes, “and you would never know.”

The Princess forced down her fury and need to _hurt this man_. Instead, she said, as clear as she could, “Dwalin. Our guest is not to be harmed. But do make him comfortable, he shall be staying with us for a while, after all.”

“Aye, M’lady.” Dwalin nodded grimly, tugging the Sorcerer away none too gently towards the dungeon, meeting with the rest of the guard at the door.

Unbeknownst to them, Thorin was currently sulking in the woods just south of Mirkwood, setting up camp for the night and blissfully unaware of all that he had left in his wake.

Xxx

From within one of Erebor’s darkest and dankest cells, deep, deep within the massive catacombs that served as a dungeon, a man sat deep in concentration, features lit up by an eerie green light radiating out from his intricate pendant hanging around his neck.

“Go forth, my hunter.” His voice rasped against the harsh surroundings, distorted and dark, “there is a beast for you to slay.”

Miles and miles away, hidden deep within a twisted labyrinth of jagged mountain peaks, stood a massive fortress, cold and impenetrable. The gate slowly gaped open like a hideous maw, and out rode a single rider into the snow and wastes. 

Xxx

 

It was surreal to be here in Hobbiton Market, Bilbo mused, same as always, with Thorin Oakenshield walking beside him. Bilbo’s feet squelching along the damp and soggy ground with the duller heavier tread of boots keeping him company. 

Thorin had actually had a pair of boots, as well as some rather questionable clothes and furs. Apparently the dwarf had managed to find a pack and fashion it so he could slip it on even in his wolf form. He had managed to trade in prey he had caught as a wolf for some supplies, and once he had a knife he could skin them and sell the furs. 

The dwarf said he had dropped his pack in the woods before he had jumped at Lobelia, and Bilbo was inclined to believe him, as he had stalked off and returned with it before they left for the market.

Thorin’s supplies had been meager at best, and the hobbit had insisted that the least he could do was to help him find some new ones. Who knew how long it would take for this curse to wear off, or for Thorin to finally get over his ego and ask for help.

In the case of the later, it could be several more ages before that would come to pass (if ever, Bilbo thought bitterly).

However, the dwarf seemed different this morning. Well, afternoon now, but changed he was. He had seemed honestly worried when Bilbo had come in soaking wet from the garden, and insisted on toweling the bewildered hobbit off. Perhaps he was trying to apologize for his behavior last night?

Bilbo was almost certain that the wolf had been trying to, and as far as he was concerned the wolf was successful in earning his forgiveness. But here was where it got confusing because Thorin _was_ the wolf, but for some reason Bilbo could relax around the beast and not the dwarf. 

Maybe it was because he hadn’t been dangled off the battlements by a great furry beast, or ever had paws close around his neck in a death grip? Thankfully the wolf shared very few similarities with those dreadful wargs, and more importantly was not at all like the wicked creatures that had invaded the Shire during the Fell Winter.

It was Thorin the dwarf that posed all the problems, and as guilty as it made him feel Bilbo almost wished he had stayed in his wolf form. He was much more agreeable that way. Or maybe he just wished the creature hadn’t been cursed dwarven royalty in disguise and had really just been a protective wolf who liked hobbits.

_Squelch, squelch, squelch._

They were silent mostly, neither speaking. Bilbo had nothing to say to Thorin, not really. He did not owe the dwarf any more words until he had received some in return. If the dwarf meant to apologize he had better do it and stop glaring at the ground. His poor heart would certainly appreciate some compensation after last night’s little…discussion.

But Thorin remained silent, walking by Bilbo’s side, close enough to reach out but not touching. His eyes did not stray very far from the path before them.

Thankfully, the rain had mostly let up by the time Bilbo and Thorin were in the marketplace proper, but not enough for there to be the usual small crowd that usually lurked around the many colourful stalls and shops. Thank goodness. The hobbit was in no mood to have to introduce Thorin to all assortments of busybody gossips and neighbors and try to explain his presence without getting and eye twitch in the process.

“Well,” he started, glancing over at the dwarf, “This is Hobbiton Market. Not much compared to Dale, I’m sure, but it should do.”

When no answer was forthcoming from Thorin, he sighed and plunged his cold hands in his pockets.

“Come on, they have some axes over there. Not for fighting, mind you, just for firewood. But come have a look at them anyhow.”

Xxx

It was surprisingly nice to have someone help carry everything back to Bag End. Thorin had snatched up all the baskets and then simply glared at Bilbo until the hobbit stopped trying to grab one from the dwarf’s arm.

Maybe Thorin really was trying to apologize. 

Or maybe he just didn’t trust a thief with his things.

“Thorin, “ Bilbo began, once they were starting back up the hill, “I know it isn’t my place to pry, but where will you be heading after the Shire?”

The silence stretched long enough for the hobbit to fear that he had somehow offended the King when he responded softly, “I do not know.”

Bilbo frowned, “But what about that strange pulling sensation you mentioned earlier? Something was calling you westwards?”

Thorin was silent for a bit before he admitted quietly “It’s stopped.”

“Stopped?” Bilbo turned to the dwarf, concerned now at his tone.

“I do not understand. Since my earliest moments in that monstrous body I could feel it pulling at me. But not last night, and not this morning.” Thorin’s shoulders were set heavily, and despite the ease the baskets hung off his forearms as testament to his strength, he appeared bowed. “The wolf is silent, and I do not know where I am heading.”

Bilbo was struck with how vulnerable the King was. Off in strange, foreign lands, stuck with a miserable curse that isolated him from prolonged contact with others, and forced to wear whatever mismatched clothes and furs that he could find or scavenge. After all that he had done to reclaim his homeland he had lost it again, in a way. If there was one thing Bilbo could understand now that he hadn’t before the quest, it was the feeling of not belonging. The feeling of homelessness.

 

And just like that all Bilbo wanted to do was to hug the great oaf and feed him nice, warm, calming noodle soup and dumplings in front of the fire under a pile of blankets until he felt better. 

No, that wasn’t right, he was still livid at the dwarf! Not to mention more than a bit apprehensive considering the attempt on his life and resulting banishment. But no one deserved to feel so alone. Although his friendship may not be entirely welcome any more…

Oh valar, this was a proper mess.

“W-well, maybe it just ran itself out? Perhaps you just needed to get far away from Erebor for a little while, you know. The stress of ruling a Kingdom and all that.” Bilbo stuttered nervously. “Maybe now the curse will just wear off on it’s own now that you’re far enough away.”

Thorin blinked and finally glanced down at the hobbit. “Perhaps you are right.” He murmured, the corner of his mouth slowly tugging upwards in something of a smile.

Yep. Bilbo was screwed.

A sudden chill wind picked up, catching a pile of wet leaves and whirling them around the pair, some hitting the two and sticking there. Bilbo yelped and tried to bat them off shuddering at the unpleasant feeling of cold, soggy leaves sticking to his skin.

“Oh goodness, but it is _cold_ this year! And it’s not even October yet.”

He reached down to his calf to peal off a dark red and a yellow leaf that had stuck there, flicking them away. As he straightened he caught Thorin staring at him.

“What?” He asked, and to his astonishment the dwarf began to grin at him.

“You, ah, you missed a spot.” He said, voice laced with suppressed laughter.

“What, where?” Bilbo glanced his body over and patted himself down. “No I have not, you are, _ohh_ , you are just leading me on now, aren’t you?” A quick peek at Thorin showed him with that smug grin still plastered on his face “I am going to be very cross with you, Master Dwarf, if you are. No dumplings for you tonight. You only get to eat once you’ve turned back into a wolf!”

“Why Master Baggins, I had not thought you to be so cruel to a poor dwarf merely trying to do you a favour, not to mention a guest at that.” Thorin said, smirking.

“For you, my King, I will _always_ make an exception.” Bilbo finally gave up and rounded on the smug git. “Alright, _where is it?_ ”

“Here,” He said, reaching a large callused hand out, “Hold still a moment.” To Bilbo’s bewilderment Thorin reached behind his head and reappeared holding a long string of tiny little leaves all suck together on one vine y steam.

“Goodness.” Bilbo said faintly, automatically holding out his hands for Thorin to place it in, “All that was in my hair? And it just stayed there?”

“It is somewhat akin to a nest.” The dwarf said helpfully.

“Ha, ha.” The hobbit playfully swatted at Thorin with the damp leaves “Lets’ see who gets any people food for dinner.”

The full, deep chuckle Bilbo was rewarded with was well worth the indignity, the sound warming him to the core more than any hearth ever could.

Xxxx

“Just put those in the pantry, will you Thorin? And I ‘ll just dig out what I need for those—“

A knock at the door had both hobbit and dwarf stopping in their tracks.

“Oh bother, I hope it’s not one of my neighbours.” Bilbo said frowning as he made his way over to the door “Word must have spread about my ‘outlandish’ visitor by now, I’ll wager.”

Thorin watched from the shelter of the hallway as his hobbit opened the door, ready to jump to his defense if it proved dangerous (or overly irritating). He was not expecting Bilbo to clap his hand to his cheek in mortification.

“Miss Poppy! Oh dear me, is it Thursday already? Goodness me, I’ve gone and completely forgotten. Do come in,” and then he was ushering in a small, mousy hobbit lady with soft brown hair and a pretty yellow dress covered with little flower designs and faded purple hearts.

She was attractive, in a plain sort of way. The longer Thorin looked at her the further his heart sank. Soft, small features, delicate hands clutching a basket, and a kind face looking at Bilbo in concern.

“This isn’t a bad time, is it, dear?”

Dear. 

She called his hobbit, his _Bilbo_ dear.

“Oh no no, of course not Poppy. You must forgive me, I’m afraid my mind has been rather elsewhere lately.” And he took the basket from her and helped her out of her soft little cloak.

“That’s quite alright, I understand. I just hope you’ve been remembering to look after yourself.” 

Gentle too, this lady wasn’t about to raise her voice or intimidate him with her superior build and strength.

“You are far too kind, Poppy, now please take a seat and I’ll put the kettle on.” As Bilbo went to hang her cloak up he stilled, noticing the two damp ones still dripping from the trip to the market.

“Oh, where is my head today!” He said, turning. “Poppy, I have an old friend of mine visiting me, I would very much like you to meet him.”

The hobbit lady gave a soft _oh_ , as Thorin moved into the entrance hall.

“Tho- oh, there you are.” Bilbo smiled warmly at the dwarf, “Poppy, this is Thorin Oakenshield, one of my former companions and a very respectable dwarf. Thorin, this is Poppy Mosher, a friend of mine and one of the finest ladies in the whole Shire,” He finished, giving Poppy a smile.

“Pleased to meet you, Master Oakenshield.” Poppy said softly, giving a quick curtsey and staring at him with wide eyes.

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Mosher,” Thorin managed to chock out despite the awful pain in his chest, and gave her a quick bow.

Bilbo bounced on his heels, “Let me just get the kettle going and then we can all sit down for some tea.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” Intoned Poppy, beginning to look a little worried when she glanced at the dwarf.

“I’m afraid I must decline.” Thorin said, suddenly unable to be in their presence any longer. “There is something I must attend to.”

“But it’s so cold outside,” Bilbo said, smile falling off his face as the dwarf ducked around the hobbits and reached for his cloak, “won’t you at least get something warm in you?”

“I’m sorry, I cannot.”

“When will you be back?” He asked softy. At Thorin’s continued silence he added, “I don’t mind eating later but I would like it to be warm for you when you come in. You will be back tonight, won’t you?” The hobbit was nervously tugging on his sleeves, toes wriggling as he bit his lip.

And what that sight did to Thorin was something completely unfair, only adding to the pain in his chest.

Thorin only hummed, and though his fingers itched to hold his hobbit he realized now that it was not his place. That was an honour he had given up long ago.

“I will see you later, Bilbo.” He managed, and opened the door. “Miss Mosher” He nodded and turned.

“Thorin! I—“ Bilbo had his hand half extended in the air, a desperate expression on his face. Their eyes met, hazel on ice blue. Bilbo sighed, stepping back. “Later, then.” 

Thorin nodded again and stepped out into the cold, late afternoon air, knowing that he would never darken Bilbo’s doorstep again. Not when the other had a chance of happiness. Not when he had someone who would not hurt him. Bilbo could have a little family, all of them small and soft and cozy up in Bag End. A life free of dwarves and orcs and mad kings.

The dwarf trudged onward down the path, feeling his heart shatter more and more with each step. At least his dear hobbit would be happy and safe. And that was more than Thorin had even been able to offer.

Xxxx

On the very edge of the Shire, a single rider stood peering out of the trees, raising it’s head to better catch the sent it had been following. After a moment it was satisfied, and crossed into the borders of the Shire after its prey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no, a cliffy! I promise not to take longer than a week with the next chapter. If I do, you can all send me angry reviews and hate mail and, I dunno, do something...bad?
> 
> You know, I had intended for this next chapter to come out on Halloween. *laughs* Oh, that was cute.
> 
> Ok, a word on Miss Poppy. I am NOT writing a love triangle. Nope, no in this fic. Bilbo and Poppy are close, and yes they do meet regularly. Perhaps they have something in common...


	8. The Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeep, this is late. Sorry. I've had writer's block. Anyhow, I'm really tired and it's very late (early) at night, so I will edit this chapter later.
> 
> Warning for some blood and violence.

“Was that, was that _him?_ ” 

“…Yes, that was him.”

“What is he doing here?”

“He’s in a bit of trouble. I don’t think he knows where to go right now.”

“And he expects you to help him?”

“Poppy, he needs help. I have to try, don’t I?”

“Bilbo, you were always far too kind for your own good.”

“No, no, I’m not. If I was I wouldn’t have—“

“Stop. Not another word against yourself.” Her hands found his over the tabletop and she clasped them between her own. “You have a kind and _good_ heart, Bilbo Baggins. I don’t want to see it get hurt any more than it already is. Goodness knows I know how that feels.”

“Poppy—“

“You tell me this: has your dwarf even apologized to you yet?”

“…”

“Oh Bilbo.” Her hands gently squeezed his, “I am so sorry.”

xxx

It followed the scent of its prey through the woods, the sky slowly turning darker and darker as the day lengthened. The darkness would heighten its vision. It would have the advantage in this hunt.

The trees began to thin, falling away until the hunter was standing atop a hill overlooking a smattering of lights and buildings nestled among the rolling land. Various smells of food and damp earth reached his nose, along with the scent of many inhabitants in this little land. It was unfamiliar to the hunter, this was not a village of elves, nor dwarves or men. A sharp burst of wind brought the scent of its prey ever closer.

The dwarf was near. 

The prey was moving now, away from this scattered and open settlement towards the North East. It would be easy to track him down out in the open. The hunter rode atop of his warg in deference to its two-legged prey on foot. The dwarf was defenseless until midnight, and was too many hours away from his fangs and teeth.

The wolf had slipped from his grasp before. Over the Misty Mountains the hunter had been close, so close to claiming his hide. But the cursed dwarf had been fast, using the treacherous terrain to his advantage and lost the hunter to the rocky, slippery paths over the mountain.

The hunter had lost its steed, and been forced to find a new one before continuing the hunt. It mattered not if the scent was old: it was distinct and it was strong.

A challenging prey deserved a fitting end, a true victory to the hunt. The dwarf was moving away from the village, but his scent lingered in one dwelling. The hunter dismounted, knowing the warg would come when called and continued on foot. It would have its kill and take the skinned hide as a trophy. But only after it had played with its prey first.

The hunter stalked foreword towards the path leading up to a grassy hill with little doors and windows peering out of the sides. The dwarf’s scent grew stronger along this path. The dwelling covered in the dwarf’s scent was near, and the hunter smiled to itself. Perhaps it would pay the place a visit.

Xxx

The piece of parchment shook in his hands as the hobbit stared unseeingly at it. There were little watery blobs dotting the paper as well, and as he lowered it he realized the drops were sliding down his cheeks.

Poppy had reluctantly left, unhappy with the prospect of leaving Bilbo alone in his distressed state but understanding his need to sort out his thoughts before his house guest came back. 

Then there had been a knock at the door. He nearly didn’t answer it, unsure of his abilities to host and toss pleasantries at the moment, and unknowing if he could handle Thorin right now, but the knocking had been persistent and he reluctantly opened the door.

“Mr. Baggins, sir,” Bilbo had looked down, surprised to see little Halfred standing on his doorway.

“Hullo Halfred,” he said, relieved. He bent down to the fauntling’s level, “What can I do for you this evening?”

The boy fidgeted, “He said I’s supposed to give this to you.” And with that a slightly crinkled piece of folded parchment was thrust before him. Bilbo took it, brow furrowing and stomach sinking.

“Who said you were to give this to me?”

“I don’ know sir, but he was really, really tall and was frownin’ at everyone. I thought he was gonna eat me, but he didn’t,” the fauntling rambled on, oblivious to the elder’s growing distress, “But he said to give this to _Mr. Baggins of Bag End_ and _no-body else_.” Halfred smiled up at Bilbo “he gave me a shiny coin!”

Bilbo looked down at the golden coin held proudly in the little hand. It was the type used in towns of men outside of the protection of Gondor or Rohan. Places like Laketown (Dale now) and the various small towns found east of the Misty Mountains. “That’s a very pretty coin, Halfred.” He managed after a while. “And thank you for the letter.” The boy beamed up at him.

“I have to go home now. Ma is makin’ Sheps pie and I don’t want Hamson to eat it all.” The little boy bounced on the balls of his feet glancing behind him at the other smials visible on the hill.

“Of course, you run along home now, Halfred.”

“Bye Mr. Baggins!”

And then he had been left alone with the paper. Who knows where the dwarf had gotten a hold of parchment and a pen, but the writing was unmistakably Thorin’s.

_You have my apologies for taking advantage of your hospitality once again, and for this abrupt and surely rude parting. I can promise you it will not happen again. No more will dwarrow invade in on your snug little home, Master Baggins. You will never be forced to endure our company anymore._

The letters burned into his mind, imprinted into his heart and surely on the backs of his eyelids.

_I thank you for your hospitality, forced though it was. I regret only making you so uncomfortable and involving you again in the affairs of those outside of your peaceful Shire._

_By the time this note reaches you I will be well on my way to the borders. I regret not being able to say a proper farewell, but I feel this is more appropriate. I will not intrude upon your kindness any longer, undeserved as it is._

He angrily crunched the paper up into a tiny little ball, crushed in his fist. He raised his arm to hurl it at the wall, destroy it, banish it. But his limb lost the energy halfway up, and came to rest limply at his side. He slowly relaxed his hand and let the poor, abused paper loose.

Well then.

He took a deep, shaky breath. Bilbo supposed he should get up and do…something. It was high time for supper. Any respectable hobbit would be settling down for a meal at this time, or just finishing preparations for one. Yes, that is what he should do. 

His heart ached at the though of his pantry, now stocked for one hobbit and one dwarf (or wolf). But that wasn’t right, was it? He was not going to have company with him for supper. Not tonight, nor perhaps any other night. 

He didn’t have the company he craved, the kind he dreamt of oh so fondly. No, there would be no loud, raucous laughter filling the walls of Bag End. No heavy tramping of iron clad boots and ridiculous amounts of weapons being lugged around, no roughhousing or raunchy drinking songs being sung loud enough to playfully scandalize any ‘respectable hobbits’ nearby.

Bag End was empty once again, made all the more noticeable by the slight length of time where it had become something else. It was awake, Bilbo decided, awake when it was happy, when it was full. And one lonely hobbit was not enough to make it happy.

Something startled the hobbit out of his thoughts and he jerked, looking around in confusion until he heard it again. Someone was at the door. He sniffled and dabbed at his face hastily with his handkerchief, not at all in the mood to entertain. 

But what if it was—no. He would not even let himself think that.

The sound of the door creaking open, however, sent a flare of panic through him. He must have forgotten to lock the door before, too focused on the note he had been handed. Absentminded fool. Lobelia could have strolled right in and taken every one of his silver spoons and he would have been too busy wallowing to notice.

There was a dull thud, then another. Booted feet were moving into his hallway. No call, no greeting. The steps were too heavy for a mere hobbit.

Bilbo scrambled to his feet, pushing down his dread and squaring his shoulders. He would not sit here curled up pathetically and wait for the King to come to him. They would meet as equals or not at all.

He steeled his resolved and took a deep breath before moving towards the front hallway.

“Thorin?”

 

Xxx

Night was beginning to set casting long shadows in the small burst of faint autumn light peeking out from behind the clouds. Thorin stared down at his as he walked along the soggy pathway, wishing that there was a curly haired someone at his side instead. But there wasn’t. And there never would be again.

The dwarf clenched his fists and cursed, resisting the urge to turn and glance back one last time to look upon the hill still visible even from his distance.

Everything seemed sharper, clearer somehow, the smell of damp leaves assaulted his nose, and even the roast chicken from the house further down the path was as potent as if it were right before him. The wolf was trying to take over.

His chest ached like it had never done before, the brief respite he had had this past day or so past only heightened its intensity. But it no longer led him west. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to turn around, go back the way he had come—but he would not. Had he not done enough to the hobbit? If Bilbo had finally found someone that would make him happy and give him a safe, warm life, then what right did Thorin have to tramp around in it? Did he not owe the hobbit at least that, the assurance that he would be left in peace and not dragged into danger once more?

He wrinkled his nose as a new scent wafted in on the wind. _Decaying leaves,_ he thought distractedly. 

It burned and it hurt, and perhaps he would loose his mind when he transformed, but at least it was worth it. For once he was doing right by his hobbit.

 _No, that was something stronger than leaves. Some crop left out in the damp to rot._

It did not matter where he went now. He would head to Ered Luin, maybe lay low for a while. Perhaps we would gain some inspiration from visiting the place he lived in for so long—

That was not the rot of plants on the wind. That was the battlefield, the bodies and blood spilt over the earth, death. The decaying stench of death was on the wind. In the _Shire_. 

His head whipped around recognizing the rest of the scent. He had encountered it before a few weeks past, traveling over the Misty Mountains. Something had stalked him, tried to hunt him like a beast. A hunter, clad in a dark garment atop a warg, its features cloaked. It had chilled him, whatever it was it was not human. 

This was the scent he now caught on the wind.

This dangerous creature was in Bilbo’s sleepy little Shire. It was tracking his scent, and icy tendrils of dread pierced his heart as he realized that one smial in particular was covered in his smell. He had even rested his head on the hobbit’s lap just that morning, and Bilbo’s petting had probably caused his fur to shed getting stuck to his clothing and furniture.

Thorin cursed and raced back down the path, fear freezing his veins as the hunter’s scent he followed lead him right back up the hill and the pathway to Bag End.

The door was ajar. The bright, friendly, green door with the small rune etched into its wood was hanging open on its hinges, creaking softly in the breeze.

The dwarf lurched foreword, dashing into the home and calling desperately “Bilbo?! _Bilbo?!”_

There was no reply, merely the door creaking behind him.

The lights were all unlit, and in the last dregs of light from the evening sky he saw a shred of something dark on the floor. Shakily he approached and knelt down, recognizing it to be a tattered piece of cloth. 

The dark splash of crimson to the left of it froze Thorin in place. Blood. _Bilbo’s blood_ , the wolf told him. 

He rose unsteadily, seeing a long gash on the wall and another to the door frame. The scent of the hunter was all over the entrance way, and as he took a long drag of air into his lungs he picked it out leading away from the smial and through the sparse woods.

His hands shook with rage at the though of his hobbit hurt and bleeding somewhere, at the mercy of that thing. With a snarl he charged off into the darkening night, letting the wolf howl along with him.

 

Xxx

Bilbo ran.

His feet sped over the damp earth beneath his soles, nearly soundless in a way only a hobbit could be, the wetness of the leaves the only thing making any sound at all. 

He looked about wildly before throwing himself down into a patch of mud, gritting his teeth against the cold and _unpleasantness_ as he rolled himself in it.

If his travels had taught him anything it was that scent was a powerful thing. And the scent of hobbit was unique and distinct to many creatures of middle earth. Hopefully the mud would mask his scent from that thing as well.

The footsteps in the hallway were decidedly not Thorin. That much was made obvious when he was confronted with a tall, imposing cloaked figure brandishing a wicked blade at him. Luckily his somewhat rusty reflexes had kicked in and the hobbit managed to dodge and evade the blow.

He had managed to grab sting and darted for the door, when a searing pain struck him in the upper arm. He grunted, trying to ignore the small dagger now lodged in the back of his limb and forced himself to keep going, managing to slip outside and slam the door into his pursuer. The long blade was momentarily stuck in between the wood and the frame, and Bilbo did not linger to see what would happen next.

He got to his feet and slipped through the trees, hoping his pursuer's bulkier body would work against him amongst the twisted roots and low hanging branches. When he deemed he was far enough he ducked behind a tree and tucked himself close to the bark, straining his ears for to see if he was still being followed.

His breath misted out in front of him in desperate gasps, great puffs of air that stood starkly against the chill of the night sky. Bilbo clapped a hand over his mouth in irritation and tried to make out other sounds apart from the frantic roaring of blood in his ears.

Nothing. Nothing yet, at least, aside from the wind rustling the leaves and the creaking of branches stripped bare of them. Bilbo cursed at forgetting his ring in the pocket of his other jacket. If there ever was a time to be invisible—

A long, piercing whistle split through his thoughts and he froze, flattening himself as much as he could against the tree trunk. The harsh pounding of his heart was all he could hear in the sudden silence that followed, and he slid his eyes shut and willed himself to breath, just breath.

The answering howl that rang through the trees shattered whatever semblance of calm he had not been able to reach.

_Warg._

He launched himself from the tree and made for the field of wheat he knew was just a ways along the path through a clearing. While he knew it was a mistake to be out in the open, he gambled on hiding in the worst possible spot so they would not even consider looking there. Perhaps it was not the best idea, but he hopped that he had confused his scent enough with the mud. If it came to it he could still make for the trees, to climb for make a desperate last stance.

He broke the cover of the trees and dove into the tall lines of wheat, his small stature nearly invisible amongst the tall stalks. The hobbit was careful to move as gently as he could to not disturb the wheat and give away his position. Luckily the wind was already rustling the crop, and he ducked lower, weaving in further, aiming to get o the other side of the field.

A quiet growl off to his right had his breath catching in his throat and he moved faster, hobbit feet moving near silently and blending his noise with the wind.

It appeared that this warg was not to be fooled by a confused scent.

Huge claws and a snarling maw lunged out at him from the wheat, and he barely had time to drop to the ground and roll away from it. The beast had landed where Bilbo had been just moments before, turning and snarling, rows of wicked teeth shining dimly in the faint moonlight. 

Bilbo freed sting as quick as he could and scrambled to his feet, just as the beast crouched and launched itself at the hobbit—

And Bilbo landed hard on the ground, spitting little bits of grass out of his mouth as an enraged roar split the air. Winded, Bilbo raised himself onto his arms dizzily watching as saw the warg wrestled with a figure that was trying to swing an axe at the beast, fighting it back with pure strength alone.

Thorin.

The dwarf was furious, the sight of the warg about to spring at the hobbit made him see red, and suddenly it did not mater that orcrist was not at his side and that all he wielded was a small domestic axe. He pushed Bilbo out of the way, sparing a moment to hope the hobbit’s fall had been not too unpleasant, and took the warg head on.

Its large, sharp claws scratched at him, but he merely grit his teeth at the pain and swung a blow at the creatures back. The thing yowled in pain and Thorin wrenched the axe free, taking care to step so that he was in between the beast and the winded hobbit.

He only had a moment to regard the creature, hackles up, teeth bared in a snarl, weakened by the hit to its shoulder. Then it pounced, claws flashing—but Thorin was ready, dodging to the left and hitting its side as the thing passed. He turned, landing one more blow to its back and watched in satisfaction as the warg crumpled to the ground. The dwarf let out a sharp breath of relief and flexed his arms.

A chocked off cry had Thorin whirling, axe raised to great the sight of Bilbo—an arm pinning the hobbit to the front of the dark clad body of the hunter, a cruel blade resting across the hobbit’s neck and a hand clamped across his mouth.

“Lay down your weapon, dwarf.” Came a voice from deep within the hood of the figure, twisted and dark, “Unless you wish to see this pathetic creature’s throat cut.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened and he frantically struggled to get loose. The hunter tightened his grip on the hobbit, crushing him to its chest and pressing the knife closer in warning.

The sight of Bilbo once again held so helplessly before the king filled him with rage. Once again Bilbo was in mortal danger, and once again Thorin was to blame. His hands shook with the repressed desire to plunge his weapon deep into the hunter, and sweep Bilbo up into his arms and to safety.

But he could do neither. Thorin grit his teeth, snarling at the figure. “How do I know you won’t harm him after I’ve done so?”

The chuckled darkly, “You do not, dwarf. But make one move closer now, and I _will_ l bleed the little thing dry. Now, your weapon on the ground.”

Thorin slowly knelt, refusing to break eye contact (not that he could see any eyes) with the thing, as he slowly lowered his axe to the ground. Bilbo shook his head fiercely, or tried to. The hunter could easily overpower the little hobbit.

The dwarf straightened, heart pounding in his ears, looking for any opening he could use, any little weakness he could take advantage of.

“Turn around dwarf.”

Thorin stilled, posture tense before he began to turn his body. He would be completely vulnerable with his back to the thing. But Bilbo was completely at its mercy, and he’d be damned if he let the hobbit be killed because of him. He presented his back to the hunter, ready to strike out at the first sound, to reach down and grab for his axe.

He did not expect the hunter to shriek in pain. Thorin’s hand grabbed up the axe and he whirled around. Bilbo was standing in front of the hunter, breathing raggedly, sword held out shakily in front of him. The hunter was clutching at his leg in pain, and before the dwarf could do anything the wicked blade was coming down in an arch toward the hobbit.

Bilbo parried the blow with a shattering clang, ducking under the next swing and springing up, using his body’s momentum to plunge sting deep into the chest of the dark clad figure.

It shrieked, a horrible and piercing sound. Bilbo scrambled back, tripping in his haste and Thorin caught up the hobbit, pulling him back and behind his stouter frame.

Sting glowed a fierce blue from where it protruded still from the hunter’s chest. With a final shriek the thing dissolved into millions of little black pieces, all whirling around in the air. They pieces floated away, opposite the breeze and back to the east. 

Then it was just the hobbit and the dwarf king alone in a field of wheat.

“…Bilbo.” Thorin began, breaking the silence. “I’m—“

_Smack!_

The dwarf blinked rapidly, a sharp pain flaring up in his jaw. Bilbo stood before him, hair illuminated by the moonlight, eyes shining and face flushed. His fist was clenched into a tight ball at his side from when he had punched the dwarf in the face. 

“Thorin Oakenshield, what were you _thinking?!”_


	9. A Little Moonlight Chat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even have a good excuse for this. I mean I had all this time off, and I got nothing done. *facepalm*. Oddly enough I think I'll be updating more regularly now that I'm back at class.
> 
> I think I'm going to have to post shorter chapters more frequently. That way you guys won't have to wait forever while I stare at the word count in dismay. Yeaah.

“What do you mean by leaving like that?!”

Thorin could only watch dazed as the little hobbit ranted at him with cheeks flushed from adrenaline and the crisp autumn chill of the night, and dumbly touch a hand to the side of his face where he had been struck.

“Walking off with only a note—you’re right, it was _incredibly rude! _I don’t care if you thought it was better for you to leave like that, it wasn’t, not at all! At least respect me enough to tell me in person.”__

__The sight of the small creature, hair tousled by the wind, face flushed, covered in mud and eyes nearly glowing in the moonlight…Thorin gulped. He was beautiful. And very angry, if the yelling was any indication._ _

__“You cannot simply waltz in and out of my life as you please, you, you _arrogant sod!!” _Bilbo yelled, fists clenching. “You say you don’t want to disrupt my life any more? Well it’s a bit late for that-- you already did! You should have thought about that before you bowled me over on the pathway.”___ _

____“I had every intention to leave you be.” Thorin said quietly, shamed by his actions and took a small step closer to the hobbit, “It was the wolf, I could not control—“_ _ _ _

____Bilbo’s nostrils flared in anger as he cut the dwarf off, “So you’re blaming the wolf now? Was it the wolf that almost struck me last night?” The dwarf flinched back, but Bilbo wasn’t finished. “No Thorin. That was you. The wolf never bothered me.” He shook his head, curls tumbling from the movement, “You have to start taking responsibility for your actions.”_ _ _ _

____Bilbo’s chest hurt just as much as his fist stung from slamming it into the dwarf’s jaw. Typical, that he would punch Thorin and end up in more discomfort than the dwarf. Stupid dwarf. If that didn’t sum up their relationship._ _ _ _

____It hurt, for Thorin to say it was only the curse and the wolf that brought the dwarf back into Bilbo’s life. But who was he fooling, the hobbit thought bitterly, he had always known that was the case. The dwarf probably wanted nothing to do with him, and regretted his wolf form for ever forcing him to endure his company._ _ _ _

____Thorin looked as if someone had dumped a bucket of icy water down his back, his face stricken and strained. “Bilbo, I came here without knowing of your intended. I would have never come if I thought you were settling down to start a family.”_ _ _ _

_____Intended? Family? Start a family? ____ _ _ _

______“My intended?” That brought Bilbo up short. His face scrunched up in confusion. “What in the name of all that’s green are you talking about?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Thorin looked at the hobbit bewildered. “That lady. Miss Poppy.” He said slowly, “You seemed so close to her, I was under the impression…“_ _ _ _ _ _

______The smaller male huffed in exasperation, shoulders slumping with the sheer stupidity of it all and burring his face in his hands. What a mess._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Oh, Thorin.” His head emerged as he very carefully articulated, “Miss Poppy is a very dear friend. But that does not make her my intended. Nor do I wish to ‘start a family’ with her” He raised his finger at the dwarf. “Though I will not hear you speak a word against her, you understand. If anything you owe her an apology for treating her so poorly and up and leaving like that.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______It took Thorin a minute to recognize the feeling blossoming in his chest. Relief. There was embarrassment and some shame, but overwhelming relief that was at the forefront._ _ _ _ _ _

______He quickly tried to push the feeling down, reminding himself that his hobbit was still very much upset with him, and if he wanted to improve things between them he had better start now. “Of course,” he said nodding, “I would not wish to insult a friend of yours.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Bilbo sniffed, “I should hope not.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“And why the sudden concern for my ‘settling down’?” Those hazel eyes narrowed suspiciously at the dwarf, “I was already quite settled before you insufferable dwarves came stomping all over my life the first time and no one seemed to give much of a care at all. You want me to believe you suddenly care about that, now when my life here in Hobbiton is as far from comfortable as could be, you suddenly care about disrupting it?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Thorin was left speechless. Of course he had felt guilty about taking an innocent hobbit along on the quest. That was part of his original misgiving towards Bilbo in the first place. It was his own fault that Bilbo was out in the dangerous unpredictable wilds instead of safe and snug in his little hobbit hole, and the guilt had eaten at the dwarf every time he looked upon the smallest member of their company. It had been suppressed and pushed down, exploding out of him in sudden bursts of anger directed at the hobbit and snide remarks about his lack of use of his utter incompetence at anything truly useful. Anything to distract the dwarf from the gnawing guilt and fear he felt that the little creature would come to harm on his account._ _ _ _ _ _

______But throughout it all Bilbo had often spoke wistfully of his sleepy little life back in the Shire, and been regularly teased for it over the course of their journey._ _ _ _ _ _

______What did he mean that his life here now was anything but comfortable? There was anger in the hobbit’s eyes (his _beautiful _hazel eyes) but something else as well. Resignment, maybe a quiet despair as well. Thorin did know what it was, nor why it was there. But one thing he was dead sure of was that he did not like it. Not at all. He ached to see it staring out of his hobbit, where it should never be.___ _ _ _ _ _

________Bilbo was pacing now, making small agitated movements with his hands as he often did when he went on one of his rants._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________“Look, I realize that you are conflicted, and stuck in an awful situation and don’t know where or what to do – but you are not the only person in the whole of Arda to feel things or have problems, Thorin.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________The dam that had been slowly building up for the last day and a half had finally burst, and Bilbo couldn’t stop if he wanted to. Not that he did. Want to. Or stop, for that matter. He knew he was rambling and probably cutting off any kind of reply Thorin could make, but you know what? _Too bad. _Thorin had been more than free with his words and opinions, not giving a care for treading all over the hobbit in the process. Now the dwarf was going to listen whether he wanted to or not. Too many times had he been hurt by this sorry excuse of a dwarf and he’d be damned to have it happen again.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I am not a welcome mat, you can’t just walk all over me whenever the need takes you. I don’t care if I’m just some miserable, treacherous outsider, a condemned thief and betrayer—“ He turned and faced the much larger male, fighting down the slight waver in his voice “you cannot treat me as an object in my own home. If you meant for me to become as such to you, here in the Shire, you will have to force me because I will _not _yield to you. Not again, not now. And certainly not here.”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Mahal._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Oh Mahal, what had he done? How badly had he treated this kind little creature for him to think Thorin was there to assert his authority and dominance over him? He realized with an icy clarity that almost all he had done since arriving in Hobbiton was that very thing. Yelling at him, insulting and belittling him, infringing on his hospitality unasked and unappreciated. He had nearly even struck the little hobbit for challenging his decision. Thorin felt sick, his stomach twisting in repulsion._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“That was never my intention, Master Baggins,” He said, fighting down the urge to gag, “Please believe me. I never intended to, to force you into submission. If I have made you feel so threatened, please know I had not meant to. ”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Bilbo regarded him silently. The weight of the hobbit's gaze seemed a physical thing, cutting right through the dwarf and leaving him bare. The hobbit smiled, a pained, cheerless thing that just barely tugged on the corners of his mouth. He shook his head._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“I'm afraid you've quite missed your mark, in that case.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________The dwarf stood there, Bilbo’s word’s cutting at him, all the worse for they were true. And Thorin knew it. But he would accept it now. He _had _to. He would not let his ego overtake him again and lash out at the kind creature for saving his life yet again. Especially not now that he had seen what his thoughtless, selfish actions had caused the hobbit.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________“Now, tell me something,” Bilbo pinched the bridge of his nose against the irritating throbbing building up in his temples, “that, that _thing _I just stabbed, whatever it was. Was it, by any chance, following you?”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________The hobbit sighed at Thorin’s continued silence, lowering his hand and leveling him with a look, “Thorin, please. I’ve just been attacked in my own home, chased through the woods and nearly had my throat cut. I think I deserve to know why that happened at this point.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Thorin swallowed painfully and nodded. “Aye, that you do. There is much that I owe you, words least of all.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________Bilbo softened a little at the remorseful tone and general rumpledness about the dwarf. “I’d like the words now, just the same in any case. But inside, preferably, if you would. I think we could both do with something strengthening right about now.” His expression suddenly turned annoyed “And you are bleeding through your jacket, master dwarf.” He huffed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“So are you,” Thorin said, through lack of much else he could get out. Bilbo’s eyes widened and he glanced down._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“What, Oh…” Thorin lightly traced his fingers down the hobbit’s left sleeve where a dark blotch of crimson was spreading from his upper arm, visible even through all the mud and grime and little bits of hay sticking haphazardly to his form._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________“Confound and confusticate it all! Blood and mud, that’s just perfect.” He fussed with the material, “I _liked _this jacket! And bloodstains are such a bother to wash out, you don’t know.” He frowned, “Well, no, I suppose you do know. Ah, beg your pardon. Out of the two of us you are the authority on the subject.”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Thorin gently laid a hand on the hobbit’s other arm, causing the smaller male to still and look up at him. “Bilbo. Please, allow me to wrap that for you. It is the least I can do, after everything.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________Bilbo nodded and made to turn but the hand on his arm stopped him. He looked down at it in confusion, before following the appendage up to the dwarf’s face. “Umm, Thorin, would you mind…”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________He trailed off at the honest pain shining in those icy blue eyes. To his immense shock and complete mortification, the dwarf suddenly dropped to his knees before the hobbit._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“T-Thorin?! What are you….”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________“I…I am sorry.” His voice was low and gravely, wavering just around the edges and it shook Bilbo to his core to hear it so. “I am so, _so _very sorry, Master Baggins. _Bilbo _. If I am still graced with the privilege of using your true name, for all that I do not deserve it. I am sorry for dumping my problems on you. Now and before. And for treating you as less than you are. You have never deserved any of it. ”_____ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________Thorin had apologized. He had said he was sorry. _Thorin _had _apologized. _______ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________And he was kneeling in front of him in the damp, soggy hay and grass, head bowed and hands loosely clenched around the material of Bilbo’s sleeves on either side._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________“You are right.” Thorin continued bitterly, “I am an arrogant sod. An awful, arrogant, egotistical sod of a dwarf. I deserve this curse. I deserve to wear the form of the wolf for wronging those who would only seek to help me, out of the goodness of their hearts. It is only right that I should wander the wilds endlessly, without friend nor kin nor homely hearth and know it was brought about by my own hurtful actions.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________Bilbo’s heart just wrenched at the proud dwarf brought this low. Of course he meant what he said to the dwarf. But he never thought Thorin would actually take it to heart. Not like this! The poor dwarf looked shattered, utterly defeated and completely miserable. His words were twinged with a deep pain and an alarming degree of self-hatred that caused the hobbit’s hands to shake._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________________________“No, Thorin, _no _.” His hands fluttered nervously above the dwarf’s shrunken frame, unsure if he should try to pull him back up.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________________________“No, you…nobody deserves to be isolated from their home. From their family. While you did treat me quite poorly, and, well, frankly you _hurt _me, you do not deserve to live in exile for the rest of your life.” He hesitantly placed a hand on the dwarf’s broad shoulder. “I would not wish that on anyone. Least of all you.”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

______________________________“ _How? _” Thorin’s large, rough hands shakily rose and wrapped around the hobbit’s soft and small ones, as he looked up at the smaller male in broken wonder “How can you have such forgiveness?”___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________“Well…I-I. Ah,” Bilbo stuttered, forcing himself to form words around his tightening throat. When no words came forth to be formed Bilbo sighed and shook his head again._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________“I, um, I did promise you dumplings earlier, if you recall." He said softly, "I think, I think I’d like to keep that promise. Maybe have it along with some wine, hmm? Before we spend the whole night out in this bloody field and you turn back into a wolf and have to wait until noon to eat anything with hands again.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________The corners of Thorin's mouth twitched and he sighed through his nose. Bilbo squeezed the King’s hands carefully, “I think we both deserve something nice after today.” He tugged the dwarf to his feet, squeezing his hands again before letting go._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________He turned and took a few steps away from the dwarf. “You at least owe me one more night of your company, Master Dwarf, even if just to straighten this whole wretched tale out. I’ll hear it just the same if it involves me or not. It certainly does now.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________“Once again, you are far, far too kind.” Thorin said softly. He gathered up sting from where it had fallen all but forgotten in the by now flattened clearing, and gave it a quick wipe with his jacket, though it still shone as bright and clean as it ever had. He handed it back to the slightly flustered hobbit._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________________________________The two made their way back through the field and into the woods. If Thorin found himself reaching out to steady the hobbit, or to help him over a particularly twisted root or difficult terrain, Bilbo made no mention of it. And if the hobbit found himself doing the same for Thorin, well, nothing was said on that either._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I will not abandon this fic. I've been a Tolkien fan all my life (and I LOVE hobbits, they're just so cute and smooshy!!) so the chance of me falling out of the fandom or loosing interest is very little to none. It just may have been a bad idea to have the first fanfic I've written in years be about a complicated relationship with a ton of background dish built up between the characters. *Sigh* That may have been a bit ambitious...


	10. What about the Body?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The criminal always return to the scene of the crime. Or something like that. Bilbo yells at someone who isn't Thorin!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh* I feel like I'm always apologizing for late chapters. It's probably because it takes me so long to update them, eh? That might have something to do with it...
> 
> Anyhow, thank you all _so much _for all the kudos and reviews and anonymous reads!! (I'm a bit of a lurker myself, so no worries) <3 I do read all of the reviews, I'm just a bit slow with responding, that's all. __
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> ___**Warnings** for brief mention of past violence and minor character death (non-descriptive and vague).  
> 

“Thorin?”

“Hmm?”

“What about the body?”

Bilbo and Thorin were sitting in Bag End’s den, Bilbo curled up with several large tomes and the dwarf poring over a map. Thorin looked up from the parchment at the hobbit.

“The body?”

“The warg body, or corpse I suppose. The one out in the field.” The dwarf stared at the smaller male blankly. “You know, the warg you killed with an axe when its rider was chasing me down last night? The rider that was hunting you across Arda for Yavana knows what reason, riding that warg--”

“Yes, yes, that body.” Thorin cut him off knowing Bilbo could and would ramble on and on and on and--

“Well?”

The dwarf started and cleared his throat. “Well, what about it?”

“That’s what I’m asking, what about it?”

“Bilbo, unless this is one of your more provocative conversation starters, I think we have a slight miscommunication.”

“Oh for—“ Bilbo huffed and glared at the dwarf. It was more of a pout really, but Thorin hadn’t the heart to say so.

“There is a massive warg corpse with various hack wounds just lying out there in a farmer’s field. You don’t think that’s a problem?”

Thorin’s brow furrowed. “…It’s dead, isn’t it? I don’t see how a dead warg would be a problem.”

“This is the Shire, Thorin, the _Shire_.” The hobbit shook his head, curls catching golden in the firelight. “We don’t just get wargs and wolves and whatnot. When that poor farmer stumbles across it, I shouldn’t like to think of the uproar. Everyone is already on edge, first with your little stunt jumping at my dear in-law, though she did deserve it I’ll give you that, and now with it being so cold this year.”

“What does the cold have to do with?” 

Bilbo stilled and a shadow seemed to fall over him. “Quite a lot to us hobbits.” He said quietly. “About twenty-five years ago we had a winter so harsh and so cold the Brandywine River froze over. It’s never done that before, not in living memory at least, so no one really thought much of it at first.” He dropped his gaze and fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves. 

“Wolves came down from the north and crossed the frozen river into the Shire. People were running out of food out of firewood, we were forced to venture outside or starve.” The hobbit stared down at the shadows casted by the fire, unconsciously curling in on himself. “You’ve said it yourself, hobbits are hardly warriors. We’ve no real weapons nor love of them, let alone skill at fighting or armed combat. What kind of a chance does a hobbit, weakened by the cold and hunger have against a vicious predator?”

_Kindly Papa, so soft and gentle. Always flustered about something or other, always worrying, always had a handkerchief ready for his little fauntling should Bilbo scrape his knee._

_Bungo had landed a few blows with the hatchet, but what good was that against claws and teeth?_

The fire snapped at jolted Bilbo back into the present. He blinked rapidly, breathing out through his nose slowly. Even all these years later he still missed his parents terribly, the loss made all the more obvious here, cradled within the walls of Bag End, the physical monument of their love for each other.

“Bilbo?” The dwarf’s brow was furrowed in concern, a hand on the arm of his chair as if he was about to rise. Bilbo felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment. Oh dear, he was having a melt down in front of a Dwarf King. Right in the middle of a conversation, too. He really had to stop making such a habit of this.

He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Ah, w-well, you get the idea.” He stuttered. Of _course _he stuttered. He groaned internally and resisted the urge to bury his head in his hands in frustration at his lack of control. “My point is that we don’t want to bring all of that up again by having someone stumble across a dead warg.”__

__“What are you suggesting?” Thorin had settled back into his seat but he stilled eyed the hobbit warily, as if he was some small, frightened animal with an injury that would scare at sudden movement. Oh _good.__ _

__Bilbo leaned forward. “That is what I’m asking you about. It doesn’t feel right to just leave it out there. That farmer will stumble across it, now or in the spring when it’s nothing more than a pile of bones, and that’s assuming one of our Shire hounds don’t come across it or--the Green Lady forbid—a fauntling should. And there’s always the chance it could draw scavengers!”_ _

__Thorin sat across from him frowning. “Are you saying we should hide it?”_ _

__“No! No, well…maybe?” The hobbit looked up at Thorin from behind his bangs, biting his lip nervously. “I don’t know. I guess we couldn’t burn it without attracting too much attention. Could we just, just get it out of the field and further into the woods? Please, Thorin.”_ _

__When faced with those large, hazel eyes gazing at him so imploringly, the dwarf found himself agreeing to move the thing, but tomorrow. He and Bilbo had decided it would best to go through the hobbit’s small but packed library and see if they could find anything at all about wizards or curses. Thorin had been forced to wait until noon to begin looking as Bilbo was a bit uncomfortable with a giant wolf pawing at his delicate scrolls and pages, and the dwarf wanted to make as much headway as possible._ _

__They would keep searching for more information today, and tomorrow they would hide the body ( _carcass_ , not body). _ _

__And Thorin would get to eat more of those incredible dumpling things Bilbo had made last night._ _

__

__Xxx_ _

__The next morning Thorin was awoken by the hurried padding of hobbit feet down the hallway. He frowned, nose twitching as he heard the front door creaking open. A soft exclamation from the hobbit had the wolf shrugging off the covers of his bed and prowling to the door._ _

__The scent hit him first; a clean, crisp smell wafting in through the smial. Bilbo was standing just in the open doorway clad in his patchwork dressing gown._ _

__“…I don’t believe it.” Bilbo shuffled foreword a few steps peering out at all the little hills and fields of Hobbiton covered in a thin layer of powdery white snow. “It’s only just October.”_ _

__It wasn’t a lot of snow, no. But it was still there, this early on in the year. The last time it had gotten this cold this early…_ _

__A cold burst of wind had him shivering and drawing his housecoat closer around himself. At least it was just a thin little layer for now. Grass and leaves were peeking out everywhere and if they had a sun later the snow would probably all melt. He hopped._ _

__He would have stayed out on the porch for quite a while longer simply gazing around in mixed wonder and unease if Thorin hadn’t prowled out in front of him and pressed his head against the hobbit’s belly, nudging him back inside. Thorin ignored Bilbo’s indignant little noises and closed the door behind them once the hobbit was safely inside._ _

__The little creature was bound to catch a cold standing out there in his bare feet and flimsy cloth robe (no matter how nicely it brought out his eyes and his glorious curls). He didn’t have fur like Thorin did. Well, like he had for some of the time at least. And that apprehensive, slightly fearful look in Bilbo’s eyes had his hackles rising and fangs thirsting for a piece of whatever caused it._ _

__He made a note to personally scowl at the sky later for having such a distasteful choice of weather._ _

__“You do enjoy pushing me around like that now, don’t you?” Bilbo scolded, without any real heat to it. The wolf whined up at him, tail wagging and nuzzled into the hobbit’s soft midsection._ _

__Bilbo flailed, “Aack! Thorin, stop!” The hobbit tried pushing away the great furry head which was now happily leaning up to lick at his face and playfully nip at his robe. “Bad Thorin, down!”_ _

__The wolf was easily twice the hobbit’s body mass if not more, coming up to his ribcage from standing on all-fours and heavily proportioned. The fur and general build of the beast only added to the overall effect, meaning Bilbo’s attempts at batting Thorin off were about as useful as throwing stones at Smaug. That is to say, not at all._ _

__“This isn’t fair at all! You can’t jump all over me just because you’re all fluffy and cuddly.” Not that Bilbo truly minded, it was just a bit alarming considering this massive beast was also a brooding dwarf King._ _

__Plus his soft fur tickled something awful._ _

__The wolf finally got off and regarded him smugly with his tongue lolling out and tail wagging._ _

__“Ooh, you are just a menace, aren’t you?” Bilbo said shaking his head and wiping the slobber from his face and housecoat. “I shouldn’t like to think of you as a child. This explains so much about Fili and Kili, they learned it from you!”_ _

__Bilbo went into the kitchen to fetch them some breakfast with the wolf still grinning after him stupidly. His hobbit smelled so good he wanted as much of that sent on his fur as he could get. Those little alarmed squeaks he made were adorable too._ _

__Thorin blinked. _Durin’s Beard._ His mouth clicked shut._ _

__He sat his backside down with a _thwump_. He had just jumped up to Bilbo and licked him. His eyes widened and he gazed down at the floor in horror. _ _

__“What is happening to me?” He whispered, before roaring in distress and sudden anger, “Curse this curse!”_ _

__Well, Thorin meant to yell. Bilbo was brought back to the front hallway by the pathetic yowling and howling and whining from his beasty friend now lying on his side on the floor, back arching as he pawed at nothing in distress._ _

__The hobbit could not help but smile at the sight. He really was a beautiful wolf, all soft furs of white and grey. Even when he was throwing a fit he was still a sight, though perhaps majestic was not quite the word at the moment._ _

__“Oh Thorin.” The wolf twitched his head away from the hobbit even as his ears tuned in his direction. “Come on now, no sulking.”_ _

__Thorin huffed and tried to bury his head in the floor boards, paws going up to cover his head as best he could in his wretched state. He would lay here for a few days in shame and then drag himself out of this cozy home and—_ _

__Cautious fingers stroked through his fur in soothing motions, and he was helpless but to stretch into the friendly touch. The fingers grew confident and quickly became full hands running over his fur. He cracked his eyes open to see little Bilbo crouched down beside him._ _

__“Don’t you worry now,” He said softly, and Mahal, this hobbit must be good with children, “We only have a few hours until you turn back into your kingly, dwarvish self, and then you can brood all you want and stand around majestically to your heart’s content. It won’t be that bad, there’s no need for such theatrics now, is there, hmm?”_ _

__Thorin knew he should be offended but he simply could not care less at the moment. As long as those amazing hands kept petting him Bilbo could say that Thranduil was the most wonderful person in Arda and he would willingly agree. He whined happily as the hobbit scratched around his ears and down to his jaw. This, this was _bliss.__ _

__“Come on you big lug,” Bilbo gave a final scratch just under his jaw on both sides before rising gingerly to his feet. “I’ve got you some breakfast back in the kitchen. It’s not much really, just some chicken, but it should tide you over for a while.” He turned and brushed off his trousers. “You can stay here if you want, but I’m going to have my breakfast in the kitchen, and just maybe there will be some extra bacon hanging around waiting to be eaten.”_ _

__The wolf sprang to his feet and followed his hobbit down the hallway, barking happily with his tail wagging behind him._ _

__xxx_ _

__They had decided it was best to go at night. There was less a chance of being seen by anyone in the suspicious act of dragging away a warg corpse, and the cold of the night would discourage anyone from being out to see them in the first place._ _

__It was a quiet enough night. The snow was mostly gone but little clumps and dustings still lay on some branches and down in the bottom of ditches and inclines. There was no moon to be seen tonight. The clouds had swallowed it whole, giving off their own faint kind of light that came from everywhere and nowhere at once._ _

__Thorin was leading the way. Bilbo may have known the area better, but the dwarf had a keener sense of smell and sight courtesy of his wolfish counterpart and could pick up the sent of their dead prey easily. So Bilbo found himself walking directly behind the dwarf trusting him to find a path. Which is what happened until he walked straight into Thorin’s back when he stopped suddenly in the field._ _

__“Mrphh!” The dwarf didn’t even move an inch at the impact, though the hobbit stumbled backward and had to catch his footing. “What is it?”_ _

__Thorin kept his position, oblivious to anything but what he was staring at. “Nothing.”_ _

__“Then why did you stop?” Bilbo groused irritably._ _

__“Because there’s nothing.”_ _

__“We stopped for nothing?”_ _

__“No, we stopped for something.”_ _

__“And what is that something?”_ _

__“Nothing.”_ _

__“Uugggh!” Bilbo pulled at his curls briefly in frustration before moving to stand beside the King. “It’s bad enough when you’re a wolf,” he muttered “but do you have to be like this as a dwarf as well? Could we just…”_ _

__Bilbo trailed off as he stared into the clearing next to Thorin. It really was nothing. There was nothing in the clearing before them. But there _had_ been something there. Something that had left blood and was vaguely warg shaped. _ _

__“Do you still have the scent?” The hobbit asked quietly._ _

__Thorin nodded towards the far end of the field. “That way.” He quickly thrust his arm out in front of the hobbit who had been about to follow it, “Be still!” He hissed, body tensing, “We are not alone.”_ _

__Bilbo peered around cautiously wishing he had Sting. From the way Thorin’s fingers were twitching it was safe to say he was missing his blade as well. A faint rustling noise was coming towards them through the stalks of wheat getting stronger by the moment, and suddenly his vision was blocked by Thorin’s broad, powerful, coat covered back which had somehow ended up in front of him. Bilbo bit back a protest at the sound of a voice._ _

__“Who goes there?”_ _

__Rangers then, by the sound of it. Very few hobbits would speak with such authority and with such an accent, and certainly not in combination or at this time of night._ _

__“Speak Dwarf, for we would know what brings you so far from the main roads and at such an hour.” Bilbo frowned. That had entirely too much suspicion in it for his liking._ _

__“I could ask the same to you.” Thorin growled._ _

__“We rangers are entrusted with the protection of this land. It is our duty to protect it from any…unsavory folk in the wild.” Now that was just plain rude._ _

__The dwarf sucked in a sharp breath through his nose and shifted his stance. Aaand Bilbo could see where this was going. Deciding to break up the fight before it started he ducked around Thorin and called out “Peace, Master Rangers! We mean no harm.”_ _

__Thorin was glaring at Bilbo like he wanted to shove him back behind his larger frame or possibly carry him off, but the hobbit chose to ignore that and focus on the men. There were two of them, one with light brown hair and a tall, stocky build and the other was younger and slighter with dark hair. Both wore matching expressions of surprise on their faces at having a hobbit pop out of nowhere and address them so._ _

__“Halfling,” the larger said, frowning, “why is this dwarf with you? Why are you not inside?”_ _

__Bilbo huffed in annoyance, “Oh please, I didn’t know there was a curfew. Which is really something as I’ve lived here all my life and never noticed it.” He crossed his arms and glared, not overly pleased with being addressed by such an insulting a term as ‘Halfling’._ _

__The younger ranger winced, but the elder was unmoved, “Why are you with this dwarf?” The man’s hand rested over the hilt of his sword, eyes showing that he was no stranger to using it. “Has he harmed you? Threatened you?”_ _

__“What?” Thorin snarled, enraged that anyone would think he would harm his hobbit. He ached to silence the man, preferably in a violent fashion, but Bilbo beat him to it._ _

__“Perhaps I’m with this dwarf because, oh, I don’t know, I _asked_ for his company because he’s my _friend!_ ” The hobbit glared daggers at that infuriating ranger. No one talked about Thorin like that. No one. Not in front of this hobbit._ _

__If the older ranger was fazed he did not show it, even if the younger was getting more and more uncomfortable by the moment. “If he’s as friendly as you say,” He continued, eying Thorin warily, “then why did he block you from our view?”_ _

__“Maybe he was protecting me from 'unsavory folk in the wild', Master Ranger.”_ _

__There was a snort from the younger man, who tried to pass it off as a cough and school his expression at the warning look his elder sent him. Thorin stepped foreword and placed a hand on Bilbo’s arm._ _

__“I would sooner cut out my own tongue than harm this hobbit.” The dwarf said, eyes dark. “But I know to the likes of you the words of a stranger mean nothing.”_ _

__“You would be correct, Master dwarf.” The dark haired ranger copied Thorin’s movement and placed his hand on his companion’s arm “Ciril, peace. Let us hear them out.” The elder frowned._ _

__“What brings you to these parts of the Shire, if I may ask.” Bilbo questioned, taking advantage of the silence._ _

__“We received reports of howling at night.” Explained the younger man, “The sheriffs asked us for help to find the beast and keep it away from Hobbiton.”_ _

__“Ah,” Bilbo said shortly, “You found something, I presume?”_ _

__“We were just getting rid of the corpse when we came across you two.” There was an eagerness about the young man that reminded Bilbo of the Durin princes. He found himself liking the youth who couldn’t be much older than twenty by man’s standards of age._ _

__“You don’t seem very surprised to hear this.” The older man, ‘Ciril’ said, frowning at the hobbit._ _

__Thorin growled softly in warning at the man, but Bilbo ignored it, “I’m not. That’s what we came here for. But it looks like you two beat us to it.”_ _

__At their continued looks of confusion he added on casually, “My friend here was the one to kill it.”_ _

__“What?!”_ _

__“I’m sorry we just left the thing here, but I was a bit distracted by the whole ‘being attacked by a warg’ part. And then we were dealing with minor injuries and whatnot that I really didn’t think to move the corpse until later.” Thorin’s gently squeezed his arm and rubbed his thumb in a comforting manner on across the fabric of his sleeve. Bilbo shot him a quick smile._ _

__“You were attacked by a warg!?” Ciril may not be a very friendly or understanding person, but he did seem to fixate on safety if his incredulous and even concerned expression were anything to go by. “I would hear this tale in full, Master Halfling.”_ _

__Thorin tensed beside him again and Bilbo sighed, “And that would make for a miserable passage of time out in this awful field.” He fixed them with his best business-like expression, “Pray, would the two of you care to stop by tomorrow for tea? It would be infinitely more comfortable than out here, I can assure you. It is a bit of a telling, the whole of it, and I’d rather it done behind solid walls that don't rain or snow.”_ _

__The two rangers exchanged glances and quickly withdrew a few steps, conversing in low voices._ _

__“Why did you invite them into your home?” Thorin hissed, pulling the hobbit aside and scowling in the direction of the rangers._ _

__“In case you didn’t notice,” Bilbo hissed back, irritated at the dwarf's mistrust “It is getting quite near to midnight. I’d rather not have you turn into a wolf in the middle of a conversation.” Thorin’s eyes widened in realization, but the hobbit wasn’t finished yet. “Besides, if you’re not comfortable with these men knowing who you are or what you’re doing here, this gives us time to figure what we’re going to say to them!”_ _

__Thorin placed his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders and drew him in closer. He looked down into the hobbit’s surprised hazel eyes and smiled ruefully. “As ever you continue to surprise me in the most pleasant ways.” Bilbo stuttered, heart fluttering wildly in his chest. “I am a fool to have ever doubted your intentions for even a moment, dear hobbit.”_ _

__Bilbo could only stare in shock, mouth hanging open slightly and a blush rising all the way up to his ears. He was spared the embarrassment of attempting speech by the tactful sound of someone clearing their throat. Upon seeing both men looking across at them, Bilbo pulled himself tighter and ignored the butterflies in his stomach as best he could._ _

__“Very well, Master Halfling.” Ciril said, cordially nodding his head, “Tomorrow for tea it is.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)


	11. Four is a Crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two rangers, a hobbit, and a cursed dwarf all get together for tea. What could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm just gonna leave this thing here and slink away into the shadows now...(*whispers* look how long it is....)
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings for brief suicidal thoughts and slight violence. (And nudity!)

The tent gaps open before him like some fearsome maw. His feet are rooted to the ground but a push between his shoulder blades sends him stumbling foreword, into the beckoning confines of the fabric tent. The warm glow of the lantern does nothing to ease the eerie chill, merely casts distorted shadows on the cloth walls and paints the armed guards on either side of the door in a menacing light.

He manages to regain his footing and looks up at the large cot in the middle of the tent. It fills his vision and he finds he cannot move his gaze, even as he hears the guards drawing their weapons.

For there on the cot lying still as death, is the great dwarf King. Thorin. That brave, reckless dwarf with the cautious smile and the world on his shoulders, his warm arms had cocooned him so carefully in his embrace – 

Hands wrapped around his neck and squeezing, squeezing—

Bilbo gasps, and suddenly his knees hit the ground. The cot is low enough that he can still see the figure upon it. Thorin’s chest is a mess of bandages, blood already seeped through the cloth and blotting the white of it a deep red. His left eye and nose are discoloured and he wonders distractedly if it’s broken. His gaze shifts down to his hands (bloodied and wrapped, broken fingers) and suddenly he cannot breath. He tears his eyes away and shakily rubs at the dark necklace of bruises decorating his neck. When he looks up it is to find the King’s eyes have opened. 

They bore into him, like two twin fires, terrible and cruel. “So.” His voice cuts through the air like a jagged knife, low and rough and hard, “Here is the thief.”

Bilbo’s hands tremble as the king slowly rises to a sitting position and turns to bring his legs down over the side of the cot to the ground.

“Did you think you could run, thief? Did you really think you could escape your crime?” He tries to talk but his voice catches in his throat and all he can do is stare in growing horror.

“Do you know what we do to thieves? But you are more than that. You are a liar and a traitor as well, aren’t you, little rat?”

Bilbo’s chest heaves as he shakes and shakes, the cold calm of the king more terrible than his usual fiery temperament. The cool touch of steel against his neck had his breath shuddering out. 

No, no this cannot be happening, Thorin wouldn’t do this he wouldn’t—he wouldn’t

“Execute this scum.” The king spat, “But do it outside. I want everyone to see what happens when such filth decides to steal from the treasury of Erebor.”

“Thorin, Thorin please!” Finally his tongue is freed and he calls out desperately to the king. Thorin just looks at him with disgust.

“Take this rat from my sight. Do with it as you see fit, but see that it suffers. ”

 

Large hands drag him away from the tent, choking, hurting, burning. And all he can hear is Thorin, Thorin, his dear dwarf, his eyes completely clouded over in a golden haze. Those eyes, those eyes! He had only seen such a pair once before, gazing out at him from a gleaming horde, cruel and twisted, the golden eyes of a dragon.

Those same eyes stared out at him, condemning him from the face of his friend, his dear friend who had been so kind.

“No, Thorin!” He yelled desperately, struggling helplessly against the iron grip of the guards, “This isn’t you, please, you have to fight it! It’s the dragon, Smaug, he’s inside of you! Please, don’t let it take you!”

Cruel laughter billowed around the hobbit, encasing him in its cold embrace, that terrible glare of those golden, greedy eyes piercing his heart like a needle. He cried out in pain, in fear, he tried to reach out but he couldn’t move, he was pinned. Everything fell away until it was just the eyes, those eyes scorching him, mocking him, tearing him apart in their fiery gaze.

He screamed and thrashed, anything to escape, to be out. He surged upward, through the darkness, pushing aside the restraints around him—

Which softly flopped away. He blinked and looked down.

His feet were twisted up in the blankets of his bed, most of which he had thrown off in his haste. Bilbo looked around wildly for a moment in confusion before he stilled. Realization slammed into the hobbit and he gasped. He pressed a shaky hand to his heart, hunching over and squeezing his eyes shut as he shook.

_It’s alright. It’s ok, you’re safe in bed. Just had a bad dream, you silly hobbit._

His heart wouldn’t stop pounding. The dream was too vivid, too terrible. He drew his legs up to his chest and hugged them to himself, trying to slow his ragged breathing and suppress the sob he could feel welling up in the back of his throat.

That hadn’t happened in a while. 

For the last two nights his dreams had been quiet. Mercifully quiet, no nightmares or unsettling scenes had plagued him as seemed to be his want recently. 

It had stopped the night he and Thorin had had that little incident in the field. He let out a long breath hands coming up to fist in his curls, tugging slightly. That night, he had snapped at the dwarf, yelled at him, finally let it all out. And Thorin hadn’t fought back. 

Thorin apologized, for being an egotistic, arrogant sod.

Which was really something, but the problem was that Bilbo still didn’t know where he stood. The dwarf had been much more supportive, even dare he say pleasant as of late. Well, as pleasant as Thorin could be. But while it was easier to be around the dwarf now, and as he was making a noticeable effort to be kind, it was still troublesome. 

Thorin had apologized for his awful behavior. But he had not taken back the banishment. And there had been no mention of the Arkenstone.

Bilbo shivered. The Arkenstone. There were many things in this world that he disliked but if there was one thing that Bilbo Baggins hated with every fiber of his being it was that stone. That awful, awful lump of shinny rock could burn in the fires of Mordor for all he cared. 

Perhaps it had even been jealousy that moved Bilbo’s hand to conceal and then barter that stone away. From the way Thorin spoke of it with such powerful longing and reverence. Now, Thorin had always been a possessive, single-mindedly obsessive sort. That was plain, what with the dramatic brooding and glowering and tag line “never forgive and never forget” and all. And Bilbo understood it, he really did, that Thorin would give everything that he was and would potentially be just to take back his home and secure a place for his people.

When it stopped being about a homeland and started being about gold, about a single pretty rock. Well…that had been a nasty surprise.

The worst part was, Bilbo too had fallen for it too. That bloody stone. One look at it and he had stuffed it in his pocket before he really realized what he was doing. He could tell this thing was certainly off limits but he hadn’t cared, enjoyed the feeling even. After everything he had gone through, all the times he had nearly died, all the lonely, cold, hungry miserable nights just trying to get these rock-headed dwarves back home, only for them to keep using him and blame him whenever convenient, well. He deserved a little extra pay. And Smaug’s words kept echoing in his head, of how they were just using him and his life was worth nothing next to the hoard. It’s not like they could have easily transported one fourteenth of the treasure across middle earth anyway.

Bilbo had snapped out of it. When he realized it was this particular stone that Thorin was franticly searching for, his desire for it sputtered and died. What would happen if he gave it to Thorin? How much further would the dwarf fall? Eventually all he could think of to do was to get the cursed thing out of there, and as it was the only possible way he could more or less move his fourteenth of the treasure out of the mountain to give to the men and elves, well…

The hobbit didn’t know if he could forgive himself for that. While Thorin had hurt him badly, of course he did, well, hadn’t Bilbo gone and done the same? Hadn’t he betrayed his friend and his whole culture? He knew Thorin wasn’t in his right mind. His eyes really had gone a terrifying black with just the slightest hint of gold. But even if Bilbo had good intentions, he had gone the worst way about it. No, he really was a traitor. And a liar and a thief. 

_What right do you have to defend yourself? Why do you think you should live at all, oh betrayer of friends, you treacherous rat? Why don’t you do everyone a favor and--_

“No. Stop. _Stop_.” He shook himself violently, hands tightening and jerking sharply in his hair causing tears to spring into his eyes at the pain. 

The nasty little voice in his head quieted down, but it was still there, still waiting and lurking on the edges of his mind just waiting for a chance to strike. It had been for a while now, and Bilbo was finding it harder and harder to disagree with.

He stilled. No, that wasn’t right. It had been worse lately, but he would never consider actually…ending himself. No. No that—no. Belladonna had raised her son to be braver than that. No matter how tempting it was. 

_Just like going to sleep, but even better. No more waking to a cold bed and an aching heart. Just nice, comforting darkness, never have to worry about anything again--_

He huffed and wrenched his head up, fists coming down to smack into the blankets. Completely irritated with himself he swung his legs out of bed and tugged on his robe. Not bothering to light a candle he gently pushed the door open, and silently padded down the hallway to the library. He needed to clear his mind.

A few minutes later, a cold nose pushed open a door in the hallway and a large head peered around the frame to gaze unhappily at the light coming from the library. How could he comfort the hobbit when he was what he feared? 

The wolf whined faintly and suppressed the urge to howl.

xxx

They were early. Early. Who had the gall to show up for tea barely five-past elevensies?! Rangers, that’s who, it seems. 

Now typically, while a guest who showed up hours earlier than expected was certainly displaying of a lack of manners, it was at most a hassle and an awkward inconvenience for both parties. In this case however, there was a lot more than good impressions at stake.

He had just finished baking some sesame cakes and was starting the dough for a nice spinach and cheese quiche when there was a loud knock at the door. He huffed in annoyance and wiped his forehead with the crook of his arm as his fingers were covered in the gooey, floury mixture. Thorin raised his furry head from where he was laying sprawled on the kitchen floor in his best impersonation of a rug and gave a small grunt.

“Half a moment!” Bilbo called, scowling down at the dough and rushing over to the sink to clean his hands. If this was Lobelia come to see if he had croaked he would shut the door right in her face, just see if he didn’t. It would probably be for the best, considering Thorin had a healthy dislikeance of the woman and might potentially jump at her again.

“You, stay out of sight,” He said jabbing a finger towards the wolf that was already lumbering to his feet, “As much as I’d enjoy the expression on Lobelia’s face if she saw you, I’d rather not chance the uproar. And what if it’s only Hamfast?” 

His hands now acceptably dough-free, he hurried down the hallway ignoring the indignant huff from behind him and opened the door. 

And came face to face with two rugged and travel-stained rangers. Oh. Ciril and…what’s his face from last night his mind supplied to him helpfully. 

“Ah.” Was what he found himself saying when his mouth decided to open on its own. 

“Master Halfling,” The elder placed a hand on his breast and gave a short bow, “You have our thanks for inviting us to your humble dwelling.” The younger man copied the movement, trying to discretely peer around Ciril to see into his smial.

“Ah, well, yes I, that is—of course, the pleasure is all mine, I’m sure.” Bilbo stuttered charmingly, and he shot them a smile he hoped was welcoming, though his face cheerfully informed him it felt rather on the strained side if anything. “It’s just that I wasn’t, ahh, exactly expecting you for another few hours or so.”

Ciril frowned. “You did say today, did you not? For tea?”

“Yes, yes, for tea, which isn’t for another couple of hours just yet,” Tea was between luncheon and supper, everybody from Bree to just east of the Blue Mountains knew that. “But that’s quite alright,” he hastened to assure them at the younger’s crestfallen expression, “You may have to wait just a bit longer for me to put something together, that’s all.”

“We would be much obliged,” Ciril said cordially, “But what, pray tell, do you mean that tea is not for a few hours? I was under the impression that such a beverage could be made whenever there was hot water and the proper leaves gathered.”

Bilbo blinked. “A beverage.” He said stupidly.

The younger nodded, “Yes master Halfling, one made from soaking dried leaves in hot water.” At the continued silence from the hobbit he added on, “You do have tea in the Shire, don’t you?”

Bilbo finally shook himself enough to reply, “Yes, yes we do, young master. In fact why don’t we go inside and I’ll put on a pot of—Goodness me!!”

The young man’s face quickly morphed into a concerned frown as the hobbit clasped a hand to his cheek in mortification.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon! I’m terribly sorry to have kept you out on the doorway this whole time! Do come in, my good rangers” he called, making sure his voice carried down the hallway, which would hopefully be entirely wolf-free when next he saw it, “We’ll just get you settled in front of the fire for now, and I’ll grab us some tea.”

He ushered the two slightly bewildered men inside, and insisted they take their boots off. He gave a quick look around to make sure there were no ridiculous, fluffy wolves in sight before he waved them down to the sitting room. “Make yourselves at home and I’ll be back in just a minute with something to eat, I’m sure you’re both hungry.” 

Thorin had better have the good sense to stay out of sight until he looked more dwarf-like, which should be in about another forty minutes or so. Green Lady be merciful. 

Unfortunately, the sinking feeling in his stomach reminded Bilbo that Thorin was a dwarf with very little good sense and all too much pride and had a love for causing a scene. Dramatic entrances where something of a specialty of his. The last thing he needed right now was trying to explain to two armed rangers why he had a giant wolf in his smial and why this was not a bad thing.

And Yavanna forbid Thorin should take a dislikeance to them! He had even less restraint as a wolf the he did as a dwarf.

The younger man called out to him just as he was about to flee down the hall and make sure Thorin had hidden his wolfish hide, “Thank you very much, Master Halfling.”

Bilbo smiled warmly at the youth, if not a bit strained. “None of that ‘master’ business now, it’s all dreadfully formal.” The man once again watched in mixed alarm and concern as the hobbit’s face suddenly turned horrified.

“Oh, dear me, I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced!” He had given them his address last night, but in retrospect that was all. Oh dear. What a dreadful lapse in manners he seemed to be having of late. Maybe he’d ask Lobelia to chew him out about it later on.

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” He gave a polite bow. Ciril’s eyebrows shot upward and the dark haired youth actually gaped at him.

“ _The_ Bilbo Baggins?!” He said eagerly, eyes wide.

“Erm, yes?” Bilbo said tentatively, taken aback. “ Or perhaps no? I’m not quiet sure how many of us are running around, but I’m _a_ Bilbo Baggins in any case, but I-I don’t know I’ve done anything grand enough to earn such a reception.”

“Bilbo Baggins, companion of Thorin Oakenshield, Troll’s Bane, the Spider Slayer and the Riddler of Dragons,” The younger listed off easily, a tinge of awe in his voice.

The hobbit realized his mouth was hanging open and closed it with a snap. “Ah ha, no, no!” He said a bit hysterically. Where on earth had this youth heard that!? It was so ridiculously out of proportion it was more at home along one of Bofur’s stories, or Fili or Kili’s. 

“It was nothing so grand as all that. I honestly didn’t know what I was doing half the time.”

“Ada is always talking about you, Master Baggins,” the youth continued, smiling “You have made quite the impression on him.”

Ciril nudged the youth and loudly cleared his throat at Bilbo’s confused expression. The man’s eyes widened, and he blushed. “Excuse me for not introducing myself. I am called Estel, and Lord Elrond is my foster-father.”

And Bilbo was gaping again.

Xxx

Bilbo was fidgeting. He was sitting stiffly in his armchair in front of the fire, and fidgeting. Oh but this was one of the most awkward ‘teas’ he had ever had. And right in his own living room no less! He offered a silent apology to his poor old father for all of the uncomfortable going-ons in Bag End lately.

First off, this ‘tea’ was more of a late elevensies or an early lunch, and while there was nothing wrong with eating at such a time it should not be labeled as anything so bizarre as ‘tea’ while doing so. Of course, after being dragged across the map by a pack of unruly dwarves he was not exactly a stickler for propriety (quite the opposite in most cases) but still!

Second, Ciril seemed intent on asking terribly intrusive questions about Bilbo and what he was doing and why was he doing, and there was just the slightest touch of patronizing in the way he looked at the hobbit that, in all honesty, was just plain rude.

Also, Estel, the younger, considerably kinder and all together more likable of the two men, was Elrond’s adopted son. He also seemed to think Bilbo was a kind of hero. Which was completely and utterly absurd! Imagine that. Little Bilbo Baggins of Bag End being admired by Elrond’s son. Hah…Poor lad. He would have to set him straight. It simply would not do to have such a fine young man looking up to a silly little hobbit instead of great warriors and grand elves and whatnot.

Finally, and most importantly, somewhere in his cozy hobbit hole was a giant dark-grey and white wolf, which was really a cursed Thorin Oakenshield, and could potentially stalk into the living room at anytime and cause the biggest scene since the Battle of Five Armies. Blast and be-bother it all! That dwarf had better be grateful for all he was trying to do for him, that giant oaf. Here he was, trying to make awkward small talk with two rangers, one seeming intent on prying into everything he very much should not be.

“And what of your guest, the dwarf?” And that was Ciril. Asking about Thorin. Again.

“The dwarf, right, yes, my dwarf guest.” Very smooth, Baggins, well done indeed. “He’s ah…somewhat indisposed at the moment.” He better be, if that lug of a dwarf knew what was good for him.

“This is a serious matter, Master Baggins.”

“Yes, yes, I can see that, my good rangers. It’s not often that you lot come calling for tea, you know. That being said, he is my guest, and as such I will not have him disturbed when he needs his rest. However,” He held up a hand to cut off the protests he was sure were about to be voiced, “He has told me to wake him just after noon. So if you don’t mind waiting some twenty minutes or so, you can have a much more reasonable dwarf to talk to. Believe me,” he accentuated, jabbing his finger at them “he is entirely uncooperative when woken early.”

“Surely a dwarf would be used to waking at odd hours.” Ciril said skeptically, crossing his arms.

Bilbo narrowed his eyes and drew in a sharp breath “Just what are you implying, Master Ciril? That a dwarf from Erebor would be so used to an unstable lifestyle and living on the road that one would be constantly alert?” He cut the man off before he could interrupt “You are aware that Erebor has been reclaimed, are you not?” 

“Yes, there has been word—“

“Then you should know they have regained their homeland. Warrior or no, I’d like to think that anyone would enjoy a good solid rest, especially if they were used to sleeping with one eye open and a hand on their weapon at all times. You Rangers of all people should understand that!”

Ciril raised his hands to try and calm the suddenly fierce little hobbit, “Peace Master Baggins. I did not mean to insult you so.”

Bilbo huffed, “It’s not me you’ve insulted.” He muttered frowning at the man. Ciril inclined his head.

“Fair enough. However, I cannot help but wonder just how a Halfling like yourself came to be housing a dwarf.” There was something about Ciril that was getting Bilbo’s guard up. The man seemed to truly care about the protection of hobbits and took his duties seriously (as far as he knew from what little time he’d known the man) but it was in the way he spoke of dwarves and especially of Thorin that made Bilbo uneasy.

“I have been known to be in the company of dwarves before, you know.” Bilbo said, nodding firmly. “As Estel here has already brought up, and although my part in it is very much exaggerated I can assure you, I have shared in their travels and troubles before.”

“So this dwarf is one of Thorin Oakenshield’s companions?” Terribly foreword this one, wasn’t he? Maybe he should try to get Ciril and Bard to meet? They could have all kinds of grim, blunt conversations about safety precautions and the motivations and identity of dwarves.

“Well not, not exactly his companion…” No, this was the majestic Dwarf King himself, dark raven locks and broody brow and all. 

Ciril leant forwards, eyes intense as he studied the hobbit. “What exactly is his relationship to the dwarf company?” This was beginning to feel more like an interrogation than anything. Bilbo straightened his back and drew a sharp breath in through his nose.

“You know, it is incredibly rude to speak of an absent person in such a fashion, and doubly so when said person is within the same dwelling. You may ask him yourself once he joins us. Contrary to common belief I actually do not enjoy being a go-between all the time.”

“I do not mean to be rude,” Bilbo held back a snort, “but you must understand that it is my sworn duty to see to the protection of the Shire and its people, yourself included Master Baggins.” Ciril rose to his feet and began to pace.

“Halflings are a soft people, unaware of the dangers surrounding them and unable to protect themselves from it. Therefore it is our duty and right to protect them from what they cannot understand nor could hope to defend against.”

“Ciril—“ Estel said lowly, a hint of urgency in his tone.

“Estel quiet.” The elder dismissed him without turning around, eyes on the floor as he paced, intent on voicing his point. “This dwarf of yours, no matter how much you trust him could very well be taking advantage of your kindness. Dwarves are a notoriously greedy race and do not take to outsiders well. Your dwarf may be planning to use you to his advantage, perhaps even as a hostage should cause arise…” He shook his head, eyes dark. “It is best you tell me what you know of him and leave these matters to us, Master Baggins. It is no hardship to us men.”

“I beg your pardon?!” Ciril finally turned back to face his host, and startled in surprise. The little creature was all but shaking, fists clenched on his lap and fury clear on his face.

“How, how dare you? How _dare_ you--- and in my own house!” Bilbo didn’t even know where to start with what offended him the most. All he knew was his vision turned red and he was suddenly on his feet.

“You would come into my home, eat my food and drink my tea and then casually insult and belittle me and my entire race?!”

Ciril appeared shocked “Master halfling, I did not insult—“

“I am not _half_ of _anything!_ ” He all but yelled. “And I will not have you address me as such. I am a hobbit, and I am a full person.” Bilbo visibly forced himself to calm down, shutting his eyes briefly and taking a shuttering breath.

“Furthermore, I will not have you saying such things about my guest! Nor his race either. I know his character all too well, and despite his shortcoming he would never conspire against my people.” It was true. While Thorin may have wanted to hurt Bilbo before, he would never endanger the Shire. What would the dwarves get out of such a green and growing land, anyhow?

Estel was staring at him in some kind of shocked horror, while Ciril at least had the grace to look a bit chagrined. “Peace, Master Baggins.” He said quickly, seizing his chance. “Once again I must apologize. I did not realize what a grave insult I had made to your person. You and your kind.” He added hastily when the hobbit raised a dangerous eyebrow.

“I did not mean to suggest that you were less than a person. However, as a ranger and protector of the Shire I must do what I can to see it safe.” The hard set was back in Ciril’s eyes and he continued quietly, “I will not retract my statement on this dwarf until I have judged his character for myself.”

This was apparently the wrong thing to say as right after the words had left the man’s mouth, three things happened simultaneously. 

The little hobbit’s fingers once again curled into fists and he fixed the ranger with a glare, ready to give him a piece of his mind.

Estel, forgotten on the couch behind the two brought his hand up to cover his eyes and groaned at his captain’s lack of tack.

And a sudden low and dangerous growl came from the hallway leading into the kitchen.

A massive dark-grey and white wolf leapt clear over the couch, over an oblivious Estel’s head, and landed snarling, teeth bared, between the hobbit and the ranger. Ciril gave a shout as he was suddenly being faced down by an angry wolf and his hand reached for his sword—which had been left by the doorway. Estel yelped in alarm and leapt to his feet.

“Master Baggins, get behind me!” The youth called, racing around to the hobbit. He grabbed at Bilbo but suddenly the wolf rounded on him and snarled viciously, ready to pounce.

Things might have ended badly if a sudden shout of “Stop it! ” Hadn’t cut through the air. Estel felt hands pushing against his back, and then the hobbit was there, glaring down the beast. “You stop that this instant!”

The wolf’s ears were still laid back in threat, but it amazingly it did not attack. 

A loud “Eärendil!” battle-cry from Ciril bursting in with his sword from the entrance way had the wolf preparing to jump.

“Stop!” The hobbit dodged out from under Estel’s panicked grab for him, and boldly flung himself in front of the wolf. “Don’t hurt him!”

“Master Baggins, move!” Ciril shouted, twisting to try and get at the wolf “It could kill you at any moment!”

Bilbo had planted himself in front of the wolf’s head, arms reaching backward to grab hold of his fur to hold himself in place. Thorin was growling, trying to dislodge the hobbit as gently as he could, “No…he….won’t. Thorin, stop!”

The wolf let out a great huff and slowed. Ciril wavered, sword still ready but confusion evident in his gaze. 

Suddenly the beast tugged out of the hobbit’s grasp. It leapt onto the coach and began to growl lowly. The two rangers quickly moved in front of Bilbo again, ignoring the slight “Don’t!” of protest behind them. They watched in shocked silence at it shook itself out, stretching its limbs and shaking its fur. 

Which was rapidly shrinking. The two men watched in shocked horror as the wolf slowly changed and morphed, chest thinning, claws disappearing, until they were not looking at a wolf anymore.

Instead they were faced with a decidedly dwarvish looking person. A completely naked dwarvish looking person, to be more specific.

Thorin straightened from his seated position on the couch, and both men took a step back when he made to rise. “Stay back!” Ciril said, sword leveled with Thorin’s throat. The dwarf raised an eyebrow, not the least bit afraid of either of them.

“What are you, dwarf? What business do you have in the Shire?”

Despite his being shorter, Thorin somehow managed to look down his nose. “I thought we’d already had this discussion?” 

Recognition flitted across Ciril’s face, _“You.”_ He gripped his sword tighter, “I’m asking you again, dwarf. Who are you and what business do you have in the Shire?”

Thorin stood. And…

Ah.

That was a dwarf. 

That was _a lot_ of dwarf. Bilbo could feel his face heating up and forced his eyes away from that very naked and absolutely magnificent—

_Ahem!_

Yes, anyway.

Thorin stood, strong and powerful, bearing his naked body (covered with thick dark hair that ran all down his— _no!_ No.) to the room with pride and leveled Ciril with his most regal glare. 

“I am Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain.” His deep, powerful voice easily filled the little smial, and he looked so very regal, even without wearing his, ahh….well, anything. Anything at all. He was naked. Bare. Unclothed. And standing in Bilbo's living room. Dear Yavanna have mercy.

“Thorin” Estel silently mouthed in surprise, as Ciril’s eyes widened.

“Ranger.” His voice had just a touch of a growl in it, enough to be all too reminiscent of the wolf. “Tell me. Just what was it you were saying about hobbit and dwarf-kind? I assure you,” and he smiled, all teeth and threat, “I would love to hear just what you said to anger our host so.”

Bilbo groaned and buried his face in his hands. So much for caution. Typical Thorin, big, dramatic entrance followed by full title and ego flaunting. Ugh. “You know what?” He said to Thorin, peeking quickly over top of his hands “I’m just going to let you figure this out on your own,” and he stalked out of the room, eyes firmly averted, furiously willing his blush away, and NOT thinking about dwarves and their, um…parts and, umm…

….

…

Nope.

Not at all.

…Oh bother it all!

Xxx

 

“Mater Baggins?” Estel’s tentative voice followed the cautious shuffling footsteps into his kitchen and Bilbo sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Just Bilbo, please. I am not overly found of unnecessary formalities.”

“Very well…Bilbo. I would just like to offer an apology for our behavior. It was wrong of us to insult you and your people so.” The young man had moved to stand beside the distraught hobbit standing in front of his counter, glaring at his tins of tea.

Bilbo sighed, “My dear Estel, _you_ have nothing to apologize for.” He turned to face the dark haired youth, a tired smile tugging at his lips. “If anything I should apologize for not being forthcoming.” The sudden rise in the volume of voices from the other room had them both wincing. “I had hoped to avoid this sort of thing from happening but, well…maybe it’s for the best. I am sorry you had to sit through all that.”

Estel smiled back, “I don’t blame you for not telling us right away. It is all somewhat unbelievable.”

Bilbo chuckled, “It is, isn’t it?” After a few moments of comfortable silence (from the kitchen, anyway, less said about the living room the better) he turned to put the kettle on.

“Mas-Bilbo?”

“Hmm?” The hobbit hung the kettle over the fire and began pulling out more cutlery and dishes. Thorin still had to have his first non-wolf meal of the day, after all.

“You are right. About us not knowing anything about hobbits.” The man looked down at his socks and frowned. “It shouldn’t be like that. It’s not right.”

“To be fair, most hobbits don’t know much about rangers.” Bilbo glanced over at Estel and grinned, “Only that they are tall and rugged and work with the bounders and sherrifs to protect our borders.”

“May I ask you a favour?” 

“Of course.”

The man met his gaze, determination in his eyes “Could you teach me? About the Shire and hobbit customs.”

Bilbo beamed “Why my dear lad, I’d be honored to. Although,” the hobbit gestured the youth closer “I’d rather not get on Lord Elrond’s bad side if you pick up some particular customs of ours. You see, we typically can eat up to seven meals a day and have been known to occasionally dance on tables and such.”

Estel grinned, “Ada will understand if it is for the purposes of strengthening the bonds of our people.”

Bilbo snorted, “I wouldn’t push my luck with the table-dancing if I were you. I don’t think poor Lindir will ever quite be the same after Bofur happened.”

“You must come back to Rivendell, Bilbo.” Estel said, eagerly. “If ever you should tire of your cozy home in the Shire we will gladly welcome you there. Thranduil named you elf-friend and Ada was only upset to hear of it because he had not thought to do so first. Please say you’ll at least visit?”

Bilbo bit his lower lip in thought, hands stilling over the plate of scones he was arranging, “…Actually,” he shot Estel a furtive glance, “And you mustn’t tell Ciril or Thorin just now-- but, I was thinking of accompanying Thorin to Rivendell, if you must know.” Estel grinned happily at the hobbit who waved his hands at him warily, “Don’t be so loud about it now! Thorin doesn’t know yet!”

“I haven’t said a word.”

“Yes, yes, but _that_ , what you’re doing, all the smiling and everything!”

Estle laughed, “Alright my good hobbit, you shall have your way. I’ll be as grim as Ciril.” He regarded the hobbit curiously. “Is there any reason your dwarf cannot know of your joining him?”

“Well he…you see, he’s a bit protective.” Bilbo gave a bit of a laugh and leaned his back against the counter, looking down at his wooly toes. “It’s embarrassing, really.” He frowned. “He also has an annoying habit of trying to take everything on by himself and then snapping at anyone who tries to help him, no matter how big a hole he’s dug himself into. He just refuses to be reasonable. And really, the dwarf never plans for anything, he just rushes head first into danger and expects the best, and what kind of a strategy is that? A bad one, that’s what! Chances are he’ll get to Rivendell and scowl at everyone and brood moodily and get terribly offended when Lord Elrond tries to help and then storm off without knowing any more about the curse then when he came there!” Bilbo huffed and ran a hand through his curls, “I mean really, what kind of behavior is---why are you laughing?”

Estel was covering his mouth with his hand and had turned his head away from the hobbit, his frame shaking with suppressed mirth. He finally turned and grinned down mischievously at the smaller being. “Why Mr. Baggins, I do believe you like Master Thorin.”

Bilbo stiffened, and carefully avoided the man’s gaze, “We did travel together for quite some time, I could hardly-not feel something for—“

“You _like_ him.” Bilbo felt his ears turning red, “You feel more than simple affection for him. I can tell.”

“Now that’s…I don’t…” Bilbo sighed, shoulders hunching up protectively. “Is it that obvious?” He asked in a small little voice.

“Just a little.”

Bilbo sighed and dragged his hand across his eyes. “I had hoped it wasn’t.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it.” Estel said gently, “The two of you seem to balance each other.”

Bilbo did not meet his eyes. “I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that.” The hobbit murmured, suddenly tired. If only there was so little between them. No war, no madness, no betrayals or threats. He felt a hand rest on his shoulder.

“Bilbo,” Estel bent down so he was level with the hobbit, “Are you alright?”

He fought back the urge to laugh bitterly. How he wished he knew. Faced with the lad’s honest concern though, he summoned up a smile. Not his best or brightest, but it would have to do.

“I’ll be alright.” He said, “It’s just, Thorin and I had…something of a fight. It was more than a fight really, and we both hurt each other deeply.” He took a deep breath, drawing strength from the man beside him, “I know I still care for him. More than I should, really. And I know he does care for me, at least on some level, but—I just, I just don’t know if I can trust him again.”

How did he know that Thorin wouldn’t go back to treating him like scum? He didn’t even know if he was still banished or not, how did he know if it wasn’t just the wolf forcing Thorin to be affectionate and protective?

“Give it some time,” Estel said, “You can only know your heart by using it.” Estel squeezed the hobbit’s shoulder gently. “I’m no expert on these matters, Mr. Baggins, but if you ever need help you can come to Rivendell. Ada might have some advice for you, but if you ever need to talk, I’m your man.”

Bilbo smiled up at the lad. “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind. Though the last time your Ada gave me advice I’m afraid I may have insulted him for his implications.”

Estel chucked, “He gives the most vague advise.”

Bilbo hummed, ”Well, I don’t know about the most vague. There’s Gandalf to consider as well.”

They both laughed at that. “Anyhow, if you want to learn more about hobbits, why don’t you help me with lunch?” Bilbo asked, turning back to his counter.

“With Pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes that's Aragorn. He was called Estel up until a certain point, when he was ready to face his destiny (I'm afraid I can't remember the particulars). But for our purposes, this is one of his first outings where he's still learning how to ranger. He and Bilbo were good friends in LOTR. Bilbo even wrote him a poem! So they're friends in this verse too.
> 
> Next chapter they are leaving the Shire. Finally! Expect the plot to pick up from here on end. And answers. Next chapter we should be getting a lot of answers.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	12. Departure and Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Bilbo leave the Shire and head to Rivendell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....So, um, guess who's not dead? ....Hehheh..heh..*facepalm*.
> 
> Writing this chapter was like trying to convince a hobbit to buy and wear iron tipped boots, ugh. I don't know why it was so much trouble.
> 
> I will properly edit this thing when I'm awake. Pretty sure I'm asleep right now, but I'll look it over once I wake up.

It was a dull, grey afternoon that greeted Bilbo as he and Thorin were to leave for Rivendell. He stepped out onto his front porch and peered around nervously at the sky as he straightened his pack. He was anxious to be well away before any more snow fell, and by the looks of those clouds it just might do that later today. If Hamfast Gamgee was to be trusted (which he always was on such matters) they were in for a storm by the end of the week.

The hobbit shivered and quickly went over in his head what he had packed. Having never traveled in winter proper before he was determined to be prepared. 

“Let me see…fur-lined jacket, mother’s scarf, wool mitts, hat,” he muttered to himself, “extra-thick trousers, shirts, waistcoat, pipe, pipe _weed_ —not going to forget that again in a hurry, lemon-and-ginger-tea, Sting, maps, rope, bed roll, spare clothes, tinder box…” He sighed, plunging his hands in his pockets. His right hand was met with cool metal. “And my ring, of course.”

Thorin stomped out behind him, new fur coat slung around his shoulders and a sword and axe they had bought from Bree strapped across his back. He had most of the heavy supplies with him, all the cooking utensils and most of the heavy cargo, despite Bilbo’s best efforts to carry some himself. This made the dwarf’s pack look quite heavy and oddly lumpy, and by all rights the whole set-up should have been awfully mis-matched and unattractive. But no such luck. Thorin, that wretched dwarf, was still as ruggedly handsome as ever. 

“Are you packed, hobbit?” The dwarf shot him one of those smoldering, regal looks of his, with his hair catching in the wind as he looked down his long, royal nose at the little hobbit. Bilbo gulped and fought the urge to lick his lips. Drat him.

“Yes _Dwarf_ , I am.” He chirped, and smiled up at the dwarf’s frowning face cheerfully. Thorin hadn’t taken very well to Bilbo announcing he would be accompanying him to Rivendell—as expected—and had argued and growled about it and eventually ran out of good reasons to object and gone into extended sulking—also as expected. Oh well, Bilbo hoped he would get over it soon. Otherwise he would make for a very poor traveling companion.

The dwarf gave him a quick once over and Bilbo tried to suppress the blush he could feel creeping around the tip of his ears under such scrutiny. He probably looked quite lacking, standing here with his thick red coat and wooly scarf with a pattern and little tassels at the ends. Even with sting strapped to his side he was sure he looked anything but warrior material. Thorin’s mouth tightened in what might have been displeasure

“Very well then.”

They were about halfway down the end of the row before Bilbo suddenly cried out in alarm, “Oh, by Yavanna, I can’t believe it!” He turned to his companion, “half a moment, I’ve gone and forgotten my handkerchief again!”

The hobbit had taken all of one step back up the hill when a large hand wrapped around his wrist and held him in place. Bilbo frowned and turned around to ask Thorin to kindly let-go-of-his-arm and let him grab his handkerchief—when something soft was pressed to his chest. “Thorin, what…?”

The dwarf was holding several small pieces of cloth in his hand, all with different edges and a few with cheerfully embroidered flowers, all bearing the same initials ‘B.B.’ on the corner. 

Bilbo stared dumbly at his handkerchiefs for a few moments before raising his head to look at the dwarf in confusion. “These are--”

“Yours.” Thorin said curtly, raising an eyebrow in amusement. “I would suggest you take them, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo hastily took his handkerchiefs and stuffed them into his coat pocket. “Why did you-- you had them?”

“I happened to notice them laying on the kitchen table as I was leaving,” the dwarf said nonchalantly, a smile beginning to tug at his mouth, “We can’t very well let our hobbit go without his handkerchief, now can we?”

Bilbo huffed and put his hands in his pockets, “Well, no, I should hope you wouldn’t.”

Thorin smirked and hefted his pack, “Then let us keep going, before our hobbit stalls us any longer.”

Bilbo stuck his tongue out in a fit of childish indignity and was rewarded with the sound of the dwarf’s soft chuckling. Majestic sod of a dwarf.

Neither noticed that they walked closer together after that. And though both hobbit and dwarf felt some perceived lightening of the air around them, each were wrong at guessing the cause.

 

xxx

Leaving the Shire was uneventful, for the most part. Bilbo had said goodbye to a flustered and worried Hamfast and handed off his keys and his will. He had made sure to tidy up his affairs this time and make it known at least to a handful of people that he was going away for a while. 

They did cause some attraction. Mad Baggins walking beside a rugged, outlandish dwarf, travel bags strapped to their persons and carrying weapons. They certainly made a sight, make no mistake about that! Most let them pass in silence, but many shook their heads and said “I told you so,” to their neighbours and a much smaller number muttered “good riddance,” under their breaths in scorn. 

Bilbo didn’t mind. He simply nodded politely to those he passed and reveled in the feeling of his feet firm on the path and the crisp bite of the wind. Thorin was silent, but his expression turned deeply troubled the longer the day wore on and the more hobbits they passed with similar reactions.

Bilbo found himself excited once again to be traveling. His feet had been itching and the road had been calling for months now, and he wondered if it was the faery blood of his mother running through his veins that summoned the wanderlust, like some ancient siren call. 

It took them two days to reach Bree. They needed to be careful to avoid anyone catching sight of Thorin in his wolf form. So they walked late into the night and when it was close enough to midnight they turned off the path to camp in the woods. They waited until noon to begin traveling again, sleeping late to make up for the long hours the night previous. Bilbo kept Thorin mostly covered with a blanket at such times, hoping if anyone stumbled across them he could pass the wolf off as a large pile of furs.

They purchased a pony in Bree and stocked up on supplies, Bree being a bit more practical for travel than the Shire in terms of goods. Bilbo promptly named the pony Lila and stroked her soft nose. He still thought of his Myrtle from time to time, and hoped that she was safe somewhere and had not become the supper of some warg.

While they could not stay at the Prancing Pony, they did stop by for a hot meal at least, and at Bilbo’s insistence (and Thorin’s impressive glowering from over the hobbit’s shoulder) the innkeeper allowed them access to the baths before going on their way.

It took them nearly three weeks to reach Rivendell. The trip there was also uneventful, thankfully, but for the howling they sometimes heard at night. Thorin rarely allowed a fire at night when they stopped, unwilling to attract unfriendly eyes drawn to the light. Dinner was a cold affair, but Bilbo would often make a fire in the morning while they waited for Thorin to change back into himself.

Hamfast Gamgee was correct, and by the end of the first week, they found themselves trudging through a foot of snow. Bilbo worried his bottom lip as they walked through the underbrush, keeping the path in sight but not walking on it.

“I just don’t understand,” he muttered, stepping over a particularly large tree branch, dusted with snow, “Why is it so cold this year?” Thorin was silent in front of him, but the hobbit wasn’t really expecting an answer, “I do hope everyone at home is alright. This frost and snow could devastate the harvest, and I hate to think what will happen in winter proper if everyone is running low on food…”

Thorin reached out and steadied him as he nearly slipped on a patch of ice. “Should it come to it, I will send word to my kin in the Blue Mountains,” his rough voice and sudden proximity sent a shudder through Bilbo’s frame that had nothing to do with the nipping wind and his poor hobbit toes in the snow. The dwarf’s hands tightened for a moment before loosening, trailing down his arms as he let go. “Your people will not be left to suffer alone again.”

Bilbo gulped nervous and nodded, heart fluttering wildly in his chest and heat rising to his ears. “T-thank you, Thorin. Thank you.”

The dwarf nodded solemnly and continued walking, Bilbo following at his back with flaming cheeks.

xxx

It was an interesting change to come to Rivendell by the main entrance. Firstly, it was beautiful. Not to say that the hidden entrance they found last time wasn’t, just well, this was a different kind of it. Secondly, there were no wargs breathing down their neck or claustrophobic fissures to be rushed through. The valley spread open before them, domes and archways peppered throughout the trees, the mists of many waterfalls giving it an ethereal glow against the heavy grey overcast of the sky. The trees had all turned brilliant shades of fiery red and orange, a few darker pines offering a contrast.

Bilbo huffed out a happy sigh at sight, his breath clouding in front of him in the chill of the evening. 

The road closely hugged the sides of the valley, giving them a spectacular view of the elven settlement. Whenever the wind blew by the trees would all rustle in a wave, resonating across the whole valley and causing damp leaves to fly up and out, into the air and down to the river far below. 

As they neared the walkway spanning the drop leading onto the complex of buildings, something soft and white landed on Bilbo’s nose. He crinkled it and raised a hand. Snowflakes. They fell lazily from the sky, descending merrily to dance and twirl in the air.

They stepped off the walkway and onto the main entryway,and a figure approached from the inner rooms. “Thorin Oakenshield,” the Lord of Rivendell gracefully descended the stairway down greet them, robes softly flowing around his lithe form. Thorin tried to force his face into something resembling a pleasant expression, though if the elbow to his midsection from Bilbo was any indication he was failing. Miserably. “I am glad to see you well, King Under the Mountain. You have my congratulations at regaining your birthright. I am sure Erebor will prosper under your rein.”

Thorin’s face seemed to darken at the mention of Erebor, but he managed a polite “My thanks, Lord Elrond, for your part in it,” even if it was a bit strained. The elf did not seem to mind. Indeed, the formal smile was replaced by something much warmer as he turned to the hobbit.

“Master Baggins, it is a glad day that sees you back in our valley.” 

Bilbo blushed and smiled up at the elf, “Any day that passes in the valley of Rivendell is a glad one indeed, I should think. I’m afraid we have come to impose on your wonderful hospitality once again, my Lord, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Elrond’s large hand clasped Bilbo’s shoulder, and Thorin had to resist the urge to punch something (preferably an elven something, or someone) as he knelt down to the hobbit’s level saying fondly “You are most welcome, my friend.”

Bilbo spluttered in that way of his that should not have been so enduring and Thorin felt his eye give just the slightest twitch. The wind chose that moment to pick up and whistled past, flakes of snow causing the hobbit to shudder, shoulders hunching and face scrunching in discomfort at the sudden chill. 

Elrond frowned. “Now come, I shall not have my guests be hungry and cold. I will give you rooms and call for baths to be drawn. After you will dine with me and tell me of your travels.”

“We would be much obliged, Lord Elrond.” Thorin said gruffly, unconsciously moving closer to the hobbit.

“That would be wonderful,” Bilbo sniffled, wiping at his nose with his handkerchief.

He stayed close to the hobbit as they were led through the elven city, the little creature appearing even smaller in contrast to the passing elves and large furniture. His protective instincts were screaming at him and he nearly gave into the urge to put his hand on the small of Bilbo’s back or reach out and grasp his hand. No tree-shagger was going to snatch up his hobbit. 

They were each given their own rooms and told that they would be fetched for dinner in an hour. Thorin sulked as Bilbo thanked the attendant profusely, and the elf actually reached down and _ruffled his curls._

Mahal be merciful. 

Bilbo gave a little wave at the dwarf before ducking into his room. Thorin could hear him exclaim in delight through the wall separating them. He must have found the balcony. 

Or maybe Elrond had arranged for fresh tea and roses to be sent to the hobbit’s room? Along with some of that awful flowery spewl they called poetry.

Thorin growled low in his throat and all but stomped into his room, shutting the door much harsher than was strictly healthy for the hinges. Stupid elven craftsmanship. Unreliable at best.

He hopped that Elrond could give him some answers tonight and they could leave in the morning, for all their sakes. He could not hold himself accountable for his actions if there was any more overly-friendly and lecherous behavior towards his hobbit. The sooner they left Rivendell the sooner—

He would leave. 

Alone. 

Without his hobbit.

Bilbo would either stay at Rivendell for a while or go home, and Thorin would keep on with nothing to keep him company but the wretched burning in his chest.

It was suddenly hard to breath, and the dwarf moved into the adjoining bathing room, placing a hand on the wall to steady himself.

Of course he had been unwilling to let Bilbo come with him to Rivendell. His presence in the Shire had only endangered the hobbit, and it would only be worse out in the wild. He had no clear idea where he was going or what he was doing and for all he knew there could be another ‘hunter’ out there chasing him down as they spoke. 

He had already harmed Bilbo Baggins enough for two lifetimes, let alone one. Thorin would not allow him to come to further harm at his already blood-stained hands.

But the mere idea of being parted from the hobbit was enough to shake him right down to his bones. That keen burning ache in his chest would be his only company, possibly for months and months, however long it took his to overcome the curse. 

Yet even without the curse, Thorin would still feel it. He realized it now. That night when he had first transformed and found himself a wolf, the tugging in his chest wasn’t new. No, it had been there. Not as strong or persistently, but certainly there. 

For the last two years he had countless times turned to ask Bilbo of his opinion or to point out some area of beauty within Erebor—only to be met with nothing. And every time his chest would lurch and ache, as if he had lost the hobbit all over again.

The same ache he felt now, under the curse. Only much stronger.

Defeating the curse would allow him to return to Erebor and reclaim his position as ruler and King Under the Mountain. 

How in Mahal’s name he was to live without Bilbo Baggins, though…

And now that he had felt relief, that he had been graced with the hobbit’s company once again. To have it ripped away, the ache would be unbearable, the worst kind of torture imaginable.

One he would face. One he _must_ face. He would not bring Bilbo to further harm. He _would not._

The dwarf’s hands shook as they reached down to his pocket, drawing out a small square of cheerfully embroidered fabric. He clutched it to his chest, fingers curling tenderly around the “B.B.” stitched into the corner.

Xxx

All things considered, dinner could have gone a lot worse than it did. 

Thorin had not attacked Lord Elrond, nor any of the inhabitants of Rivendellel (at least to the best of Bilbo’s knowledge). He had not destroyed or set fire to any of the furniture, nor defiled any artifact or public structure. 

All good things.

He had not threatened Elrond’s life, nor the lives of his kin. There were no declarations of war nor threats of conquest. Thorin had not said that…thing, whatever it was he said to Thranduil when they were captured in Mirkwood. This was very good, as whatever it was that he said was intensely offensive and probably part of the reason behind Thranduil demanding so much from them after Smaug had been slain.

So yes, things could have definitely been worse. Unfortunately, that was not the same as saying things went _well_. Which was a shame really, because Bilbo would have dearly appreciated not having his nerves set on edge all night.

Bilbo liked to think he had helped diffuse the situation at least somewhat, being something of a mutual friend on both parties and having ample experience in dealing with stubborn rulers and conflicting interests. To his credit, there wasn’t too much growling or death glares directed at Elrond, and Thorin was treated with as much respect and patience as he though was fair. Maybe more, even, considering.

But somehow the tale had come out, and Rivendell had not burned down, and Bilbo even managed to enjoy a bit of his dinner in the process.

Thank the Green Lady.

Elrond’s brow had furrowed and he folded his fingers, deep in thought. After a time he roused himself and moved to stand in front of the window. The snow continued to fall, swirling in lazy patterns across the darkened sky. The few flakes that landed against the sill and in the corners of the window slowly melted and left little wet trails down the glass in their wake.

This is ill new indeed,” Elrond uttered, hands clasped behind his back, “Give me until tomorrow evening and you shall have my council. There is much I wish to consult.”

xxx

When Bilbo came down to the small dinning room the next morning freshened and well-rested, he found Estel and Ciril already at the table. 

“Master Baggins,” Ciril greeted, looking a good deal more comfortable and relaxed in elven robes, “I am glad to see you have made it here safely.”

“You as well, good ranger,” Bilbo said pleasantly. “And—oh dear, is that Master Estel?” The man was drooping into his mug, head propped up precariously on his hands, hair falling about his face nearly covering his half-closed eyes. He startled at his name.

“Ah! Mas--half-Bagilbo!” the young man slurred, blinking his eyes furiously trying to focus on the small being who plopped down in the seat to his left. Bilbo tutted and rested a hand on the man’s arm.

“Poor Estel. Just how much sleep have you been getting?”

The youth straightened up in his seat before swaying slightly. He fixed the hobbit a bleary look, “I am a Ranger of the north wild, and as such I do not need to do those-that-I put all before my own needs.”

“And I’m sure the wild is safer for it, dear lad.” Bilbo said soothingly to Estel, patting his shoulder in sympathy. “What on earth have you two been up to?” He asked a suspiciously amused looking Ciril.

“We were scouting the area just north and west of Rivendell. There were warg tracks that we followed a good ways into the mountains.”

“Warg tracks?” Bilbo shuddered, remembering all too well what if felt like to be pursued by those awful beasts.

“Aye. Only a small party by the looks of it. We only returned the hour before dawn and I’m afraid our Estel here is not entirely used to such a schedule yet.” The youth was now fully asleep on the table, head half buried in his arm, his hand loosely held around his mug.

“No wonder,” Bilbo huffed, affronted on Estel’s behalf, “That’s only a few hours of sleep.” 

A few elves entered carrying platters and trays heavily laden with all kinds of breakfast goodies. The hobbit happily loaded his plate with gusto, looking at the spread as if it were some long lost lover. “Oh, but I have missed this. A nice, proper breakfast.” He all but moaned at the sight of fresh cheese pastries and deviled eggs.

“Will Thorin be joining us?” Ciril asked after a minute of watching the hobbit eat with a morbid fascination.

“I had so hoped he would join us for breakfast,” Bilbo sighed, in between bites of a lovely warm slice of potato bread slathered in rich, yellow butter, “but I suppose it would be a bit much to expect of him. You know of his, ah…predicament, so I doubt we’ll be seeing him until after noon.”

By the time Estel had re-emerged from the table and Bilbo was going on his third helping of pretty much everything, Elrond swept in to join them.

“Lord Elrond, good morning.” Bilbo greeted cheerfully, making to stand, “I must compliment you on your fine table. It truly is the most wondrous thing I’ve seen in weeks!”

Elrond waved the hobbit to remain seated and smiled warmly, sitting across from him, “It is always a pleasure to see it so well appreciated.”

Bilbo laughed “Yes, well, if there is one thing hobbits can claim to be masters at it is appreciating our food.”

“Morning Ada,” Estel said groggily, sipping at his tea.

“Good morning, Estel.” The elf replied, a smile forming around his mouth. “I see you and Ciril have not been idle of late.”

“My Lord, a pack of wargs came down from the mountains not a week ago,” the older man said, “The tracks went as far as the ford but did not pass it.”

Elrond hummed in response. "Good work. I will ask to have a greater guard placed over the near mountains to watch for any irregular movement."

"Aye my Lord." Ciril gave something of a bow, if it could be called that from a sitting position. More of a head nod, but it worked just the same.

"Master Baggins, if you and Thorin could join me later I believe I have found something which may be of use to you."

"Really!? I-I mean, of course, my Lord," Bilbo stuttered, "Thank you for helping us," the hobbit added on shyly.

"Many of my kind choose to forget that the fate of the elves is also tied to that of the other races. It should not be so," said the elf Lord, eyes distant. "For as long as we choose to dwell on Middle Earth it is our duty protect it." He smiled slightly, "And it is always a pleasure to help an elf-friend, Master Baggins."

"Thank you just the same," Bilbo said softly, "and please, call me Bilbo. 'Master Baggins' is a bit too cumbersome for my tastes."

"Very well, Bilbo. I--"

Elrond trailed off as a dark haired elf maiden rushed into the dinning room, swift and sure as a mountain wind and as graceful as a swan. 

"Ada," She said, noiseless as she all but danced across the room towards the elf Lord.

"Arwen, what has happened?"

"We have another guest, Ada." Arwen said, "I found him wandering the fields near the hidden entrance. He says he has come to speak with you." Bilbo noticed that the elf was wearing trousers and a thick elven tunic, both scuffed and travel stained.

Elrond's eyebrows raised and he sat back in his chair, "And who is this traveler."

"Why, he is a dwarf," her eyes found the hobbit when she said this before turning back to her father, "he says he is Dwalin son of Fundin, dwarf of Erebor."

And Bilbo nearly choked on his tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Answers about the sorcerer/curse next chapter. Because apparently it was not going to happen in this one. (sorry).
> 
> Friendly reminder that I will _not_ abandon this fic, no matter the ridiculous gaps between updates. It's personal, this fic is getting writ!


	13. The Council

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo makes some observations on the dust to be found (or not found) underneath elven furniture, and some important information is discussed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, I am really sorry this one is so late. 
> 
> I can explain!! Thing is, I don't really like this chapter. I mean, it's important to the plot, but it's just not that great. Also, it's almost twice the length of my normal chapters (9300 words!) and I have NO idea how that happened. So please excuse this very late, monster of a chapter, and expect the next one out by the end of the month.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the kind comments and kudos! I will respond to them as soon as I finish posting this. Thank you to everyone who's read and enjoyed this story so far!

Estel, who had quickly straightened his clothing at Arwen’s arrival, looked up eagerly. “Dwalin? Dwalin of Thorin Oakenshield’s company?”

“I believe so, as it is Thorin Oakenshield he is seeking” Arwen replied, gracing the man with a smile that lit up her face that caused him to blush furiously.

“Master Baggins here should know, as—Valar, where is he?”

Everyone turned to face the remarkably hobbit-less chair sitting innocently just to Estel’s left. Elrond frowned.

“Where is our hobbit?”

Estel jumped to his feet, accidentally jostling the table and causing his mug to spill over onto the tablecloth, “Bilbo?”

“Something has happened to him,” Ciril rose much more gracefully to his feet, face grim, “He could not have left the room without any of us noticing. There must be some devilry at work here.”

Arwen stepped foreword raising her hands complacently, “We would have sensed such evil magic. I felt nothing.”

“I suspect that if Mr. Baggins cannot be found,” Elrond’s voice cut across the room “it is because he does not want to be. Arwen is correct. I feel no foul presence within this valley, and will bare none to pass within. Bilbo will come to no danger from dark magic here.”

“But how--?”

“Keep in mind that this is the same hobbit who not only passed unseen into a dragon’s lair but managed to steal from it and lived to tell the tale. There is more to Mr. Baggins then it seams.”

“That may be, but he is still gone. I cannot say I am free of worry for our friend.” Said Arwen.

Ciril unhappily removed his hand from the hilt of his sword, “Why would he vanish thusly? Something must have caused him to leave, and suddenly.”

“He didn’t even finish his breakfast,” Said Estel, peering down at a half-eaten pastry in concern, “From what I understand of hobbits, that is a very bad sign indeed.”

“Something must have upset him enough that he would disappear as he did.” Arwen said.

“But why? There is nothing here that will do him harm. Surely he knows this?”

Estel’s questions hung in the air, and Arwen and her father’s eyes met over the table briefly.

If anyone seated at the table had stretched their legs out, they would have been met with an unexpected resistance, which was of course an invisible hobbit. Bilbo was crouched under the table, ring firmly on his finger, and fighting down his rising panic as much as he could, waiting for a chance to dart from the room.

Dwalin was here. _Dwalin_ was here in Rivendell, and Bilbo was one dead hobbit.

xxx

When Thorin came out of his room it was just after noon. He woke feeling grudgingly well rested, the fault of that monstrosity the elves called a bed. It was much too large and had patterns of vines and leaves decorating the frame. Hopefully he had shed during the night and left some fur behind as a gift. He had decided to wait out the hours of his cursed form in the privacy of the painfully elvish room. There was a large painting of a woman singing by a stream, and he curled up in his bed to glower across the room at it.

As tempting as it sounded to chase after tree-shaggers as a wolf, Elrond would know it was him, and he would not have any elf see him in this form if they knew it was really a cursed dwarf king. Besides, however much it hurt him to think of it, he did need Elrond’s help. 

And Bilbo would be cross with him if he caused a panic. He could hear the hobbit lecturing him on how accidentally getting himself killed by jumping at elves would _not_ help his cause. At all. And he would probably jab his finger at the dwarf as if it were some kind of a weapon Thorin should be mortally afraid of. His mouth tugged up in a wolfy grin at the thought.

_Bilbo._

The grin slid off his face. A day, maybe two, and Thorin would be on his way. Without his hobbit. It was the only way Bilbo could be safe. Maybe it would even be better if he stayed here in Rivendell instead of returning to the Shire, as much as he hated to admit it. He had caught the faint sent of warg a few times during the trip, and it would only get more dangerous the colder it got. Once the frost and cold set in there was little to eat, and vicious creatures became even more so through the constant burn of hunger.

The thought of Bilbo huddled in the snow, alone and vulnerable, trying desperately to stay warm as wolf and warg howls split the air had Thorin growling lowly. _No._ Bilbo would not be traveling back to the Shire by himself. Or at all until spring. Thorin would plead his case with the elf if he had to. He’d rather have Bilbo stay in this flimsy elvish city than face winter out in the wilds alone.

He let himself lie there and glare at the wall for a time, until his stomach began to growl. He wrinkled his nose and whined. He flicked a lazy glance at the window, trying to see what time it was from the sun. When all he could see from his spot was the reddened trees far across the valley he realized he would have to get up for a better look. Whining grumpily he rolled off the bed and padded over to the balcony, nosing aside the temporary door used for colder months. 

Stepping outside he was assaulted with all the scents and smells of the valley, damp leaves, dirt, deer, rabbits, and a whole mesh of things from the few open windows of the city. His tongue lolled out happily at the crisp dampness, sensitive nose picking up the energy and urgency of creatures trying to prepare for the sudden cold, to find a safe place to wait out the winter. It filled him with excitement, and a sudden need to be running through those woods, tracking down some of those scents and rooting through the leaves.

He yipped and bounded out to the railing, tail wagging and—

Oh

Durin’s beard, not again!

Thorin slumped down on the damp, cold platform, yowling in misery and tried to bury his head in his paws. Clarity was not a comforting gift. 

Was he condemned to lack all control in this form? To make a fool out of himself, in a city of elves no less by this damned curse!? Again he had let the wolf take over and act like the giant, overgrown puppy it seamed to be most of the time. At least this was better than The Butterfly Incident, which would never be spoken of to anyone ever.

His stomach groaned along in sympathy and reminded the wolf why he had gone outside in the first place. Thorin lumbered moodily to his feet (paws) and glared at the sky. Of course it was still next to impossible to tell the time of day, with the heavy overcast eliminating all shadows and hiding the sun completely. He huffed, feeling somehow personally affronted and stalked back inside, dragging the door shut behind him with more force than necessary.

Maybe Bilbo would bring him something to eat. His ears perked up a bit at the thought. The hobbit always gave him something to tide him over before he was able to have a proper meal (that he could eat with hands) and surely he would be along any moment now with a nice plate of bacon, or maybe some sausage, or whatever wondrous thing he had smelled from the balcony.

And then he remembered: Rivendell elves don’t eat meat. 

They had to make some exceptions, he grumbled to himself. Even if Bilbo couldn’t bring him any food, he could stop by and explain the situation. Or at least say hello. 

Maybe give the spot behind his ears a nice scratch? Or the spot right under his jaw?

Thorin grumbled to himself, realizing that the hobbit was probably far too enraptured with the poncy elven city and the plants and waterfalls and the bloody tree-shaggers to care about a rude dwarf trapped in a wolf’s body.

Irritated, he went back to his previous nest of blankets on the massive bed and flopped his furry self down, resigned to being forgotten and dejected.

So he was in a decidedly bad mood when he finally transformed and stomped his way into the dinning room. Getting lost a few times did nothing to help. He stopped short at the sight of a familiar bald head covered in tattoos in the dinning hall.

“…Dwalin?” He uttered in complete disbelief.

“Thorin!” The tattooed dwarf hurried over and they gripped each others forearms. Thorin received a head-butt that rattled his brain and caused passing elves to flinch. Excellent. “Ye suborn arse,” Dwalin laughed, “I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for ye!”

Thorin felt the smile slide off his face, “How’s Erebor? What has happened?”

“It’s that cursed sorcerer. Erebor is on the verge of revolt.”

“…What?” Dwalin patted Thorin’s shoulder and tugged him away from the table of elves.

“Aye. It’s a long story lad. I finally managed to catch that orc-scum man after he’d disappeared. I had him brought in front of Dís, to let her have him, but then he starts threatening you. Somehow he knew you weren’t in Erebor and starts sayin' he can make the curse worse and we wouldn’t know.”

Thorin exhaled through his nose slowly, trying to curb his frustration. Perhaps running off hadn’t been the best idea. But he hadn’t known how the magic would work at the time. And the burning in his chest had been impossible to ignore. Dwalin nudged him again.

“But look at ye! Back to yer old, grumpy-arsed dwarf self! Now that you’ve shrugged off the curse, we can go back and beat that [orc-fucker] to a pulp.”

“Dwalin, I am still cursed.”

“…eh?”

“I am still—“

“I heard ye. You just don’t look like a wolf to me. Sure you’re not addled? Did I hit ye too hard back there? ‘Cause—“

“Dwalin!” Thorin rubbed at his forehead irritably. This was not shaping up to be a good day. “From midnight to midday I am the wolf. The rest of the time I retain my original form. “

The warrior just stared at him for a moment. “…Mahal’s _balls._ ”

“Dwalin, tell me everything. Why is my Kingdom going to revolt?”

“This is a tale I would much like to hear myself, Master Dwarf.” Thorin silently cursed as Lord Elrond appeared beside them. Bloody elves, slinking around the place like wraiths. From the look on Dwalin’s face he was thinking something quite similar.

“This doesn’t concern you, elf Lord,” Dwalin gritted out. Thorin was hard pressed to not back him, but remembering the reasons for his being here and the elf’s promise of help, he was forced to be civil.

A small voice in the back of his head telling him that a certain hobbit would be most displeased if he attacked the elf lord may have had some sway in his decision as well.

“May I remind you that you are residing in my dwelling and have just partaken in the bounty of my table. I am not your enemy, Fundin son, nor am I the King of Mirkwood.” Dwalin grumbled but Thorin bowed his head respectfully.

“Point taken, Lord Elrond.”

“I would not pry if I did not see reason to. And if Erebor truly is on the verge of a civil revolt, perhaps I may offer my support in securing your position, King Under the Mountain.”

“I…would be most honored at your assistance.”

“Then in an hours time we shall meet, and I will tell you all I know of this sorcerer and his magic. I would not want such esteemed guests to go hungry, nor would I deny friends their reunion.”

“Thank you.”

“My attendant will summon the both of you. Until then,” He nodded in parting and swept off. The two friends watched him leave. Dwalin whistled lowly. 

“Well, what do you know? Poncy elf lord isn’t a complete bastard.”

Xxx

It took some time before Bilbo managed to take off his ring. It took even longer before he had calmed down enough to think. 

In the corner of an empty room, partially lying under a divan, he squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to concentrate on breathing. _Nice, slow, easy in and out._ After a few minutes he opened his eyes and concentrated on his surroundings.

It was a very nice room, now that he was thinking of more than finding a hiding spot. It must have been some kind of a lounge room. Many beautiful divans and other comfortable sitting-furniture were set up in a semi-circle, facing a large fireplace. There was a truly magnificent tapestry hanging above it, depicting what looked like a great battle, with dark shapes filling the sky. Dragons maybe, from what he could make out from his limited view on the floor. He shuddered at the memory of massive claws and a cruel, fang-filled grin. Several small, arched windows decorated the wall across from him, filling the room with the dull, grey light of autumn and casting faint shadows on the floor.

Bilbo breathed out through his nose. This was ridiculous. Of course it was! Here he was, hiding under elven furniture and terrified out of his mind. It was completely irrational and he knew it. But then, when did fear ever need to be rational?

Dwalin wouldn’t be looking for him. The warrior was looking for Thorin, not a treacherous hobbit hiding under a divan. 

On his way back to the Shire, Bilbo had ended up telling Elrond about his banishment. He hadn’t meant to at first, the hurt was still too raw at the time to speak of to someone who hadn’t been there. But the elf lord had been so welcoming and gently questioning of his travels, and then he had said there was a cloud around Bilbo’s heart and, well. Bilbo may have ended up telling him more than he should have. Loudly. Miserably. Possibly even sobbing a little. And possibly with his face buried in Gandalf’s robes half of the time. 

The hobbit wanted to blame his outburst on exhaustion from travel, coupled with elven spiced wine and the feeling of security Rivendell magically produced in contrast to the conditions on the road. But he sincerely doubted that was the reason.

The next morning, unsurprisingly, found the hobbit embarrassed out of his mind and apologizing for his behavior. But both wizard and elf Lord had assured him it was nothing for him to worry about. Elrond had even thanked him for telling him all of it.

Because Thorin Oakenshield had not simply banished his treacherous burglar. He had banished him under pain of death, and a public and gruesome death at that. 

Should Bilbo Baggins ever set foot in Erebor or any dwarf settlement ever again he would be brought before the court, tried and executed. 

If any dwarf even came across him on their travels they were within rights to drag him back to Erebor should they desire to seek retribution for his crime. 

Should any dwarf knowingly seek to help him, or communicate with him at all, that dwarf would be subject to trial and imprisoned or labeled a traitor themselves.

The Arkenstone was not just a gem, but an artifact of great cultural importance to all of dwarf-kind. By not only stealing it, but giving it to one of another race, the crime was not simply against Thorin or even Erebor, but against all dwarves. Therefore all of dwarf-kind were permitted to demand punishment should they come across him.

At least that’s how it was explained to Bilbo as he was roughly manhandled out of the King’s tent once the degree had been passed, and all but thrown out of the dwarven camp into the snow of the battlefield.

Long story short, Dwalin was well within rights to have Bilbo dragged off and executed. Typically, this hadn’t been a major fear of Bilbo’s as he had stayed in the Shire where dwarves were a rare sight. Even if they’d heard of him, very few would know enough about the appearance of hobbits to distinguish unique features. So fear of discovery had been the least of his worries back home.

What hurt worse though, was forbidding communication at all. Bilbo sincerely doubted any of the thirteen dwarves still counted him as a decent fellow, let alone a friend if his expulsion from Erebor was anything to go by. He hadn’t actually seen his friends at all after the battle, having been brought straight to Thorin’s tent upon consciousness, and then dragged out of the camp. 

He had pestered Gandalf for news of his former companions and thus learned none had perished but little else. Gandalf himself had found it harder and harder to enter the dwarf encampment, so great was his fury at the dwarf King he could not stand the sight of him after his treatment of the hobbit.

That had hurt him the most, knowing the last time would ever speak with some of his dearest friends was when he had been lowered down the battlement wall after outing himself as the Arkenstone thief.

One thing that had helped him from despairing completely was a letter he received a few months after returning to the Shire. The letter itself was enclosed in a few different envelopes with some odd, bizarre scribbled papers inside. At first Bilbo had been confused, thinking perhaps there was a mix up in the delivery. But he had realized why it was like that once he had found the real letter in the inner most envelope. He would have recognized that writing anywhere.

Over the course of their journey, Bilbo had taken to talking to his companions to get to know them all better. He could safely say that Bofur was probably the best friend he had ever had. Kind and friendly as he was, Bilbo had been shocked when he found that the dwarf couldn’t read common. Of course he was fine with khuzdul, but having spent so much time wandering through human settlements it must have been troublesome. When Bilbo had pressed the toymaker with his concerns, Bofur had confessed to sketching down some of the main building signs, like ‘tavern’ or ‘inn’ and the pictures that accompanied them just to get by. But when Bofur had admitted he always wanted to learn to read common, that was it for Bilbo.

Bilbo had begun teaching the dwarf to write and read in common, and Bofur had taught him how to whittle in exchange. Some of his fondest memories were of drawing letters into the dirt with a stick, or squinting at parchment by the fire, watching Bofur trace out letters and grinning in that lopsided way of his. And the look of wonder on the dwarf’s face when he had first spelt out his name, and then jumped up and pulled over anyone who would be pulled over to look at it!

Whittling too, he thought of kindly. He had managed to make a very awkwardly proportioned and all around lumpy pony, which he named after his poor Myrtle. But Bofur had been so very patient with him and encouraging, and declared his misshapen attempt as _‘just lovely.’_

Of course Bilbo recognized Bofur’s writing. The words were written carefully, often misspelled and misshapen with many a backwards ‘s’ or ‘r’. But the words had been so painstakingly written with obvious care, Bilbo had sobbed at the sight of them and crumpled up into a miserable hobbit lump of blankets and handkerchiefs and tea for the rest of the day and most of the next. 

The message stated just how sorry Bofur was for not standing up to Thorin, for not finding Bilbo in the elven camp before he left for the Shire, and how he never should have been banished at all. Bofur explained Thorin was still not in his right mind, though that in no way excused his actions. 

Early on, Bofur had realized the crush Bilbo had on their leader, and perhaps was the only one of the company at the time to guess at just how much it had cost the hobbit to give the Arkenstone to Bard. He assured the hobbit that no one in their right mind would ever dream of giving him such a harsh punishment, and Thorin was a damn fool for treating Bilbo as he did. The dwarf promised that as soon as his brothers were settled he would travel to Bag End and check on him, banishment be damned. 

Bilbo had wanted so badly to respond, to thank his friend for his kind words and demand that he under _no circumstances_ write him again, let alone visit. He wouldn’t have Bofur labeled a traitor as well just to give a lonely hobbit some company for a while! 

But he couldn’t write Bofur, because that would put him in danger as well. So the letter had been lovingly read and re-read, even carried around in his pocket for a few months and occasionally placed under his pillow or atop his bedside table.

It was the only assurance he had that perhaps it was only the sickness causing Thorin to be so cruel. That maybe not all of his closest friends were forever lost to him. (That perhaps there still was hope for his foolish, _foolish_ heart that he had given to the Dwarf King).

It was then understandable as to why the hobbit was quite so apprehensive about running into Dwalin. Or his conflicted feelings towards the dwarf king who had banished him.

Thorin was being agreeable to Bilbo, even fetching his handkerchiefs and defending his honor against rangers and Lobelia! He acted as a friend and if they hadn’t had so much pass between them he would have believed that they were very close indeed. 

But while Thorin apologized for his actions, hadn’t revoked the banishment. 

Perhaps Thorin felt he had been too harsh in his initial punishment, but as King Under the Mountain he had to save face and keep the banishment anyway? Bilbo smiled bitterly. That sounded like a dwarven thing to do.

But back to the present, what did that mean for him now? From Thorin’s latest behavior, he thought it might be safe to reason he would not allow his captain of the guard to drag him back to Erebor to be executed. He hoped. 

Besides, he was quite certain Elrond would not approve of such violence in his house. Still, he would much rather avoid seeing the hatred in his friend’s eyes, or the disgust. And if Dwalin insisted he be allowed to seek vengeance, and Elrond stepped in…he would much rather avoid any interracial conflicts or potential war breaking out, thank you. His determination to avoid such things had been the cause of his banishment in the first place! Dwalin always stood by Thorin and protected him fiercely. And Bilbo had hurt them all, but especially Thorin. 

He lay there on the floor staring up at the underside of the divan. It was a very nice divan. Dark blue cushions with embroidered silver stars accented the material at intervals, and the whole thing was framed with a smooth, white wood. Even the underside was attractive.

The hobbit took a deep breath. It was amazing, he thought in the back of his mind, there was no dust at all down here. By now the floor was digging uncomfortably into his back and his blind panic had finally subsided to a dull throb in his chest.

_Alright Baggins, time to pick yourself up, get out from under the divan, and act like a responsible, respectable, mature hobbit._

Of course, it had been a few years since he was last considered to be respectable, but never mind that now. Minor details, really.

Bilbo huffed determinedly and planted his palms flat on the floor, using them to slide his body, head first, out from under the divan. Legs came next, and he curled into a sitting position once he was fully situated before stumbling to his feet. Thankfully no one had entered the room or witnessed his little display of extreme maturity. 

He straightened his waistcoat and brushed off his jacket, impressed again with the lack of dust he should by all rights be covered with. Right. He was here to help Thorin, and that is exactly what he was going to do.

If Dwalin wanted to drag him back to Erebor as a prisoner, well...then _too bad._ Thorin wouldn’t let him. Not after he had been trying to be more friendly lately (in a Thorin way) and even protective. Right? 

_Who would want to help you, little rat? Just wait until you are of no more use to him, then you’ll see how deep his affections run._

Bilbo staggered for a moment, overcome with doubt. 

_Poor, stupid little hobbit. Can’t even see past his own foolish heart to realize no one could ever want him…_

He breathed in a shaky breath, squeezing his eyes shut and digging his fingernails into his palms. 

No. _Stop._

The hobbit slowly calmed down, tuning out that horrible little voice in his mind. He had covered for the great dwarvish oaf of a king and even saved his life! The least he could do was not have him executed when it was Thorin himself that had sought him out in the first place.

Argument firmly in place he shook himself and stepped out into the hallway, forcing himself to not slip on the ring or fling himself uselessly under any more furniture when a few elves passed by in the distance. He would walk proudly and not slink around in the shadows. 

He’d just walk proudly while sticking to the sides of the hallways. And while making as little sound as possible. Yes. Good.

Making his way to the library—he had after all promised to help with the curse, and if all he could do was research it, then that is what he would do—he walked by an intricately carved walkway overlooking the valley. It was open to the air, save for an overhanging roof and a railing to keep anyone from tumbling off. Seemed that Lord Elrond had more sense than Thranduil in terms of architecture and safety procedures. Frosty air blew into the hallway and Bilbo shivered at the heavy dampness, hurrying past the opening out to the adjacent walkway. 

Oh goodness. Speaking of Lord Elrond—there he was. Bilbo peered out through the open windows at the figure outside. Wet leaves were plastered to the sides and corners of the walls, a few being swept along by the elf’s robe as he passed on silent feet. Little bits of snow could be seen here and there, frost sending its first icy tendrils up the glass panes and along the backs of leaves. Bilbo shrunk back, apprehensive of disturbing the elf and a bit embarrassed of his earlier disappearing act at breakfast.

“Know that you are safe here, and no harm shall come to you within my realm.” Bilbo jumped, but Elrond kept his gaze fixed on the valley, looking for all the world as if he were merely appreciating the view. 

The hobbit felt a lump forming in his throat and struggled with find some kind of response. Should he even say anything? Did Elrond really know he was there? Of course he did, he’s an elf Lord! Everyone knew elf lords (and ladies, never, ever discount Lady Galadirel) were practically omniscient. 

After a few moments of intense struggle, Bilbo finally settled on blurting out a quiet “Thank you”. As soon as Elrond had nodded slightly, the hobbit hurried along his way, feeling both more at ease and more flustered than he had earlier. 

Xxx

An hour or so later found Bilbo in the library, stalking the rows and rows of stacks that had something to do with magic or curses. So far there had only been a few mentions of such things in passing, but nothing explicitly on the subject of forced transformation via magic. Apparently the topic of enchantment also encompassed much poetry on love and beauty and the natural magic inherent in such things. Which was of course simply fascinating, and, well, _enchanting_ , but was in now way what he was looking for.

He stretched up on his toes to reach one of the higher shelves and pulled down a particularly dense tome, covered with dust. He coughed and wiped at his eyes, grumbling about good for nothing dwarves and stupid hobbits who really, _really_ should know better than to get involved in all of this by now.

“If anyone has the right to complain of that, my dear boy you most certainly do.”

The hobbit squeaked at the sudden voice and suddenly found himself face to face with grey robes and a long beard. A wizened face smiled down at him. “Gandalf!”

Bilbo launched himself at the wizard, hugging him probably too tightly to be comfortable, “It’s so good to see you.”

“Here now,” The wizard crouched down to properly return the embrace, “I’ve missed you too, my dear lad. But tell me,” he drew back and regarded the little hobbit closely with his piercing eyes, “what brings the esteemed Mr. Bilbo Baggins to be researching magic and complaining about dwarves on this fine afternoon?”

“Oh Gandalf, you must know what’s happened. Thorin’s been cursed.”

“Most correct, as that is the reason for my presence here.”

Bilbo’s brow drew together, “So then, why ask?” Gandalf’s eyes sparked under the rim of his hat.

“Wizards and dwarves I know of. But it is the hobbit I inquire after.”

“Ah ha, well…” Bilbo trailed off for a moment, biting his lower lip “I thought we had already established what a complete push over I am for anyone who comes to my door asking for help?” he gave a little self depreciating smile, “Remember that whole ‘Quest for Erebor’ debacle?”

“Thorin asked for your help?” The wizard’s bushy eyebrows raised in surprise, and what might have been barely hidden delight. “Perhaps there is hope for the dwarf yet.”

“Well, he didn’t exactly ask for my help. And what do you mean about there might be hope for Thorin? Is there no hope? Surely you can do something about the curse—“

“Peace, Bilbo,” Gandalf said complacently, “I was referring to our friend, not his curse. I do have some insight on this curse and perhaps even a solution—and do calm down my good hobbit, you will hear it soon. But why exactly did Thorin come to you if not for help?”

And so Bilbo told him. As much as he felt comfortable with, and omitting a great deal of their ‘conversations’ early on and downplaying his fear and anxiety at seeing Thorin again. He suspected the wizard knew from the way his brow drew together but he said nothing.

“Well, you certainly have been busy.” The wizard finally said once the hobbit had finished his tale, “But come now, there is somewhere I think you should be.”

“Yes, back at home making myself some tea.” Bilbo laughed, sounding only a bit forced, “but lead on. Though I don’t suppose it’s to anything as nice as that.”

 

Xxx

Thorin, Dwalin and Arwen sat around a circular table in a smallish, out of the way room. It was circular in shape and had a few windows and an arched ceiling, Thorin noted dully. Lord Elrond was there as well, a few other elves bringing in chairs and offering them refreshments. Thorin nearly scoffed at the elvish wine, but when he remembered what they were here for he quietly accepted a glass. Hopefully it would be strong enough to dull his senses to what he would be doing. 

A cautious sip of the liquid had his brow rising in surprise. It was certainly fruity tasting, but had a nice burn on the way down promising to lessen his clarity when consumed in any large quantity. He saw Dwalin take a swig of his, before raising his eyebrows at the King. He shrugged back. Neither would say no to something alcoholic, even if it was elven.

As Thorin had eaten, Dwalin had explained the situation at Erebor. The king clenched his fists in anger at the thought. He was going to personally torture and kill that miserable Sorcerer if it was the last thing he did.

While Elrond was talking with one of the attendants, Dwalin kept trying to sneak glances at the elf maid. Thorin hid his grin in his glass. Dwalin was about as subtle as a rabid warg. He knew Arwen had escorted Dwalin to Rivendell’s main entrance, but he could guess something had passed between the two. If anything, Dwalin seemed somewhat impressed in a grudging way, despite his best efforts, Thorin could guess.

Elrond finally sat down and took a sip of his wine. When it became apparent that the elf lord was content to merely sit there, and that the one remaining attendant didn’t seem to be moving, Thorin began to fidget. 

“Let’s not all talk at once, then.” Dwalin said gruffly, drawing a smile from Arwen.

“Ah, Mithrandir.” The elf lord said as the wizard entered the room, waving at his attendant for more chairs “I am glad to see your sense of timing has served you well once again, my friend.”

Gandalf raised his impressive eyebrows, “A wizard always arrives precisely when he means to.” 

“Gandalf.” Thorin didn’t know if he was more relieved or infuriated at the wizard’s presence. Relieved that perhaps he would have some magic, wizardly way of turning him back into his full, dwarvish self, and anger that he always somehow became involved in everyone’s business. Not only was Thorin once again be barred to his scrutiny, but so would Erebor be, as he was sure the wizard would want to know all about the curse and politics and everything else that was none of his bloody business, meddlesome blight. 

The wizard looked to his left and just behind him, and then

A small, curly haired hobbit stepped out from where he had been hidden by the wizard, pale and clearly apprehensive if his expression was anything to go by.

“Baggins!” Bilbo flinched as the tattooed dwarf stared at him, face unreadable. Dwalin jumped to his feet and it was only Gandalf’s hand on his back that kept the hobbit from dissolving into a quivering mess or darting from the room as the massive dwarf lumbered towards him. The hobbit squeezed his eyes shut, expecting a blow.

Large arms closed around him and the breath all whooshed out of his body as he was tugged closely to a solid, muscular chest. 

_What?_

He realized dazedly that his toes where no longer touching the ground “It’s good to see ye, lad.” Came a gruff voice from above him. And then he was being nuzzled.

“Dwalin, don’t crush him. And give him some air. I won’t have you suffocating the hobbit.” Came Thorin’s voice from across the room. The large dwarf set the hobbit back on his feet, fondly cuffing his shoulder. 

“Please, join us.” Said Elrond, gesturing at the extra chairs that had been placed, and dismissing the attendant who bowed and left the room “I believe your council will be much appreciated.”

Bilbo carefully shuffled around to a chair in between Elrond and Gandalf, smiling bashfully at Arwen when she greeted him. Thorin hadn’t stopped looking at him since he entered, and the hobbit met his gaze as well, some unknown feeling fluttering around in his stomach at the relief in the dwarf’s eyes.

“Now that we are all here, let us begin.” Elrond surveyed the dwarves solemnly, “It has come to my attention that Erebor is suffering a crisis.” Thorin glared mulishly at the table and his captain of the guard muttered something under his breath. “As Lord of Rivendell I am in a position to offer my support, and that of my kin if I can, should you tell us of the turmoil that has disrupted your kingdom. I speak as a friend, and only seek to offer my aid to Erebor and her King, if I may.”

Thorin groaned internally and fought off the impulse to throw back the rest of his wine. This was the part where he was supposed to talk casually about how he was cursed by some Mahal forsaken man and turned into a wolf, and then how Erebor started falling to pieces and a revolt nearly broke out. Dwalin nudged him slightly with his boot under the table as a sign of support. All eyes were on him, Elrond, Arwen, Gandalf, Bilbo.

The hobbit stared at him from across the table, hands nervously clenching in his lap. He startled as he met the king’s gaze and held it. What Thorin found in those hazel eyes gave him the strength to draw himself up to his full height and begin.

“As most of you know, some time ago a man came to Erebor.” Thorin’s voice was clear and strong, and Bilbo let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “He called himself Tugûthul and said he was a sorcerer from the north. He offered his services and claimed he was capable of such great magic anything I asked for could be granted. This was in exchange for a place on my council and in my court. I refused the man, and had him escorted out.”

“He was…evidently displeased with my refusal, and cursed me.” Thorin drew in a deep breath, “In my surprise at finding myself transformed into a wolf at midnight, I left Erebor, believing myself unable to rule. I later discovered that the curse is only effective from Midnight until midday, the rest of the time I am myself.”

The king’s eyes met Bilbo’s over the table again. They were full of pride, and Thorin felt something flutter in his stomach at the silent praise.

“Most of you are aware of this, but Dwalin has brought me news of Erebor, and much has changed in the wake of my absence.” Dwalin picked up from here, noting his friend’s discomfort.

“After we caught the sorcerer and threw him in the dungeons, things started happenin’. Unexplained earthquakes, cave-ins, the walkway up to the throne even cracked! It’s still standin’, but the supports are unstable. It nearly shook everyone off. What’s worse are creepers. Hundreds of the things are showing up. Haven’t been seen since Thror was still young.”

“Creepers?”

“Insect like creatures that live deep down in the depths of mountains.” Thorin answered the hobbit, “They were all wiped out in Thror’s time as they are vicious and a threat to any life that makes itself home deep under the earth.”

“And you say they’ve come back now?”

“Aye, it’s unnatural that’s what it is. There’s talk of it being a sign the mountain has rejected her ruler. They say that is why you’ve have taken ill.” Dwalin nodded toward Thorin as he spoke, “Erebor herself is revolting against Thror’s line. Not everyone was happy with the grandson of a gold-sick King taking the throne. And some still question Thorin’s ability to rule, his recent absence throwin’ more coal in the fire.” The dwarf’s face darkened, “Worst of all is Vorvik Firebeard, a popular and powerful council member. He says that the line of Durin is cursed and will only lead us to ruin.”

“So that is why Erebor’s people are revolting?” asked Arwen.

“That is part of it.” Thorin replied wearily. "Word got out that we had a sorcerer in the dungeons,” he continued, “one that had the power to stop all the attacks and stabilize the mountain. But he was refused and imprisoned by order of the King. Apparently within the next few days the crawlers dared to advance to even the areas above the mines and the earthquakes became so bad the people went on strike. They demanded the sorcerer be released and that he stop these disturbances.” 

The Guard Captain scowled, “Of course they lessened right after he was released, and now he has a place on the council.”

“These are dire tidings indeed,” Elrond had his fingers loosely entwined around his glass, frown upon his ageless face.

Dwalin growled, “And guess who Tugûthul supports? Vorvik Firebeard, that’s who! The bloody magic user obviously made a deal with Vorvik and has been turnin’ the council and the public against Dís and Thorin. He’s usin’ his blasted magic to scare dwarves into betrayin’ the crown just so they can be safe. He’ll put Vorvik on the throne and then control him too!”

“This sorcerer of your troubles me.” Gandalf said.

“That’s an understatement,” Thorin scoffed, Dwalin grunting his agreement beside him.

“And is he a ‘friend’ of yours, then?” Asked Dwalin bluntly. Although, Bilbo reflected, he had rarely seen the dwarf be little but blunt in the months that he had known him.

“Certainly not!” Gandalf huffed, affronted, “Not even a former one. No, I suspect this sorcerer is anything but a friend of the Istari.”

“So, this fellow isn’t one of the blue wizards then?” Bilbo asked, fingers now laced together on the tabletop.

Gandalf shook his head, “The blue wizards long ago chose to concern themselves with the vast lands to the far east. Besides, Tugûthul you say was wearing a red robe, was he not? He certainly wouldn’t be one of them.”

“That’s what I thought.” Bilbo chirped, “Or maybe he’s a corrupted blue wizard and by wearing red he’s going against wizard code, and…I don’t know, displaying his wickedness through robe colour?” Bilbo’s nose scrunched up as he frowned, “That sounded a lot more credible in my head,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment as the tips of his ears began to turn a charming shade of red, “I don’t suppose a wizard would be so petty as that. Oh dear...”

“You would be surprised,” Gandalf muttered.

“Are you regulated to wear the colour of your title?” Thorin asked, curious. It seemed absurd, but then from what he knew of wizards he wouldn’t be overly surprised if it was so.

Gandalf huffed, “Our colours are indicative of our power—“

Dwalin cut the wizard off, “How come ye wear a blue hat if you’re ‘the Grey’, then?” Gandalf glared at the dwarf and huffed again,

“That is hardly relevant. I believe we were discussing the identity of this sorcerer, not my choices of wardrobe, Master Dwarf.” Arwen was suddenly overcome with some kind of coughing fit, though Bilbo doubted there was such a thing for the fair folk. “You have said Tugûthul claimed to be from the north, not the east.” Gandalf continued sternly, ignoring the elf, “Therefore I do not think we are dealing with a wizard. Also the magic he uses is a different kind, though he does have a staff which is worrisome.”

“What is he?” Asked Bilbo.

“What he claims to be. A sorcerer from the north. Though how he came by this title or power is less clear.”

“More importantly, can ye fix the curse or not.” Dwalin was getting fed up with all the fancy talk and niceties, which were irksome at the best of times, let alone when his best friend and King was cursed and his Kingdom was revolting.

Gandalf was clearly put out with being interrupted, “A curse cannot simply be ‘fixed’, Master Dwalin. Certainly not one of this particular kind if I am indeed right about it. You have complained that I should have contacted you sooner about this magic. But the truth is I was not entirely sure what it was myself. I had my suspicions, of course, but I had to prove them. I am happy to say that I believe I have.”

“And what are they?”

“Rumors have been spreading of a dark man with incredible power,” The wizard said, “stories of statues and objects coming alive, and odd malformed creatures that seem to dissolve when killed have been spreading.”

“The hunter.” The hobbit’s eyes were wide as he glanced over at Thorin, “In the Shire, we were attacked by a cloaked figure. It just shattered into bits and flew off after I stabbed it.”

“Stabbed it!” Dwalin laughed and clapped his hands, “That’s our hobbit!” 

Bilbo blushed furiously, “It was hunting Thorin! What was I supposed to do, just stand there and watch?” 

“Naw, you got it right lad. If it wants a piece of Thorin; stab it. That’s my philosophy!”

“You were very dashing,” Thorin said added solemnly “You defeated it single handedly and saved my life in doing so.”

Arwen looked delighted, craning her head to lean around her father to smile at the hobbit, “Master Baggins, I hadn’t known you were such a fierce warrior.”

“Oh no no no, _no!_ I’m not a warrior!” Bilbo waved his hands around in a fluster, “I didn’t even know what I was doing. I just panicked and, well, aimed with the pointy end. But that’s not the point! We were talking about the hunter.”

“Indeed we were,” said Gandalf, eyes twinkling down at the hobbit. Bilbo shot a half hearted glare up at the wizard’s amused expression, crossing his arms and frowning.

“This kind of magic is much different than that of the Istari.” said Elrond, “As all things under Morgoth, they cannot create, only defile and deform a thing until it is something else entirely. This particular magic is most similar to that of the Necromancer.”

“But I thought,” said Bilbo, startled out of his sulk, “I-I thought he was defeated.” Gandalf shook his head.

“Defeated, no. Driven out. His power has been diminished, but he still remains in this world.”

Arwen leaned foreword in her seat, “Do you believe this sorcerer could be the Necromancer?”

Gandalf shook his head again, “No. We did not defeat him, but he certainly wouldn’t be up to anything again so soon.”

“There were rumors,” Elrond began, “Of another under his power. A disciple. King Thranduil had mentioned such suspicions when the spiders first came to the Green Wood. Unfortunately, no such disciple was found when Dol Guldar was purged. We had hoped he was with Azog’s forces at the Battle of Five Armies, but there was no such presence. Galadriel herself could not sense any being so powerful on the battlefield.”

“A coward indeed, if he did not stand at Dol Gular nor with his master’s armies,” said Arwen.

“So it would seem.” Elrond replied.

“I have conferred with Radagast,” said Gandalf, “and he has certainly gotten wind of the sorcerer.” Thorin muttered something unkind about the brown wizard to Dwalin who nodded in agreement. 

“Radagast may have the greatest source of information out of any of the wizards, King Under the Mountain,” Gandalf said sternly. “Many animals are his friends, and very few think to guard their actions or speech when they appear to be alone in the wild. He found out about this sorcerer far before we did. In fact, he even knows where Tugûthul’s stronghold is.”

“What?!” Thorin and Dwalin both sat forward, the warrior’s hand clasping one of his axes. “A stronghold? How much power does this man have?”

“Are we dealing with some army?”

“As I mentioned, his magic is vast, but still very limited,” the wizard said complacently. “It is entirely likely that the few orcs and goblins who escaped the Battle of Five Armies may have flocked under him, perhaps even some others who are attracted to his power, but it appears our greatest concern is his sorcery.” 

Dwalin and Thorin sat back, but both still were tense in their seats. 

“Like the necromancer, I suspect his power lies not in giving life, but in possessing that which already exists, or animating that which is dead.”

“Are ye saying he can bring back the dead?” asked Dwalin.

“Surely not…I mean," Bilbo started, quietly, “the dead cannot be brought back to life. Not…not _really_ ” he shuddered. “The Barrow Downs near the Shire are said to be places were the dead don’t sleep. I’ve heard stories. A cousin of mine was once dared to go near one and he was never quite the same when he came back. And, well…sometimes people don’t come back at all...”

“Quiet right, Bilbo,” Gandalf said. “The Barrow Downs are dark places, full of a restless evil. The tombs there are full of the dead, but the dead do not sleep. No dark magic can give life back to the dead, but it can twist it and give it movement.”

Thorin smiled grimly, “So that is what he meant when he offered to bring back the countless dwarves lost to Smaug and our exile.” Gandalf nodded his head.

“If you had accepted, Erebor would have already been under his power.” Bilbo shuddered and clutched at his tea. Thorin flexed his fingers, wishing he was closer and could put his arm around those small shoulders and tug the smaller being close.

“Erebor is almost under his power already!” Dwalin slammed his fist down on the table, “He’s created social unrest and already has influence on the council. We need to get him out of Erebor and break the curse on Thorin so he can take back his place as King.”

Arwen nodded, “Well said, Master Dwarf.” 

“Thorin, do you remember what was the exact wording of the curse?” Thorin frowned at the wizard’s question. That was not something he liked to dwell on. Nevertheless, he realized he had little choice if he ever wanted to be rid of the wolf. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to remember.

 _“I curse you Thorin Oakenshield. All shall know how unworthy you are of the throne, all shall see your shame.”_ Thorin opened his eyes again, fighting off cold, slimy feeling he felt at reciting those words. Bilbo was watching him worriedly, and tried to give him and encouraging smile. Thorin nodded at him thankfully, “Something along those lines, if memory serves.”

“Aye, that was about it,” Dwalin affirmed grimly.

Gandalf let out a breath and rubbed at his eyes, “Ah.”

“Ah?” Parroted Dwalin. “Care to elaborate?”

“As I’ve said, Tugûthul’s magic cannot act on it’s own. It can only twist and mutate what is already there. Dwalin, do you recall if anyone else was cursed in your time there?”

“…No. Just Thorin. Isn’t that enough?”

The wizard hummed, “As I thought. Thorin, this sorcerer was able to curse you because he knew something about you. His power steams from exploiting an already existing fear. Something that was affecting you, consuming your thoughts. Something that has shamed you, Thorin. By knowing of your turmoil he had the power to curse you. If you had no profound sense of shame, you would never have been affected.”

Silence filled the room, only punctuated by the sound of the rain falling against the glass “So how is it broken,” asked Dwalin eventually.

“Thorin Oakenshield, you must think on what it is that causes you such shame, and you must resolve it within yourself. Only then will the curse be broken.”

“How would the sorcerer have known Thorin felt shame at something? Everyone feels shame at some point!” Dwalin growled, frustrated on behalf of his friend.

“There must be an overwhelming negative emotion.” The wizard explained, “When we are consumed by such things they transform us. The curse is merely an extension of that.”

The dwarf scowled, “What would he think Thorin ashamed of?”

“Perhaps he thought the King would have such feelings at being forced into an alliance with Thranduil and King Bard, even when it was against his wishes?” voiced Elrond.

“Or perhaps at succumbing to the dragon sickness,” Arwen suggested.

“Yes,” Gandalf mused, “perhaps he assumed being forced to ask a former enemy for help would have been sufficiently humiliating. The events of the battle are certainly no secret, many know of what happened. It would be easy to guess that Thorin was so shamed of—“

_“Stop it!”_

Surprisingly, the outburst was not from Dwalin. Bilbo was standing, his face flushed and hands clenched tightly. “Don’t talk about Thorin like he’s not right here. None of us have any right to speculate about his perceived weakness with so little regard for his person. I know the curse needs to be broken, but that is _no excuse_ to be so rude and so disrespectful. Thorin is sitting right here, just as the rest of us are. If Thorin wants our help he will say as much, otherwise _please_ keep your opinions to yourselves!”

Thorin could only stare at his hobbit, warmth growing in his chest until he felt he might be caught aflame with it. His Bilbo, flushed and passionate, eyes flashing, was defending his honor. How he itched to hold him in his arms and kiss those lush lips. Happily distracted, Thorin was nearly oblivious to the slight murmur of apologies coming from around the table. 

“You have our apologies, Thorin Oakenshield,” stated Elrond. “It was rude of us to discus you so casually.” 

“I understand it was done in the name of my best interests, so I will not hold it against anyone,” Thorin said, finally tearing his gaze away from his magnificent hobbit.

Bilbo nodded stiffly, “Good. Glad we’ve settled that,” The hobbit still looked affronted as he turned to the dwarf King. “Thorin, I am sorry that happened. And if I have represented your wishes incorrectly, I do apologize. It was not my intention.”

Thorin quickly put a stop to the idea that that was unwanted in any way, “No, you have my thanks. You would make a fine ambassador should you ever have a mind to be one.”

“Oh! I-I, oh, that’s very kind but, I don’t think I’d really be one for politics," Bilbo spluttered before realizing he was still standing and flopping down in his seat, embarrassed.

Gandalf cleared his throat, “I believe the curse itself should be part of the answer. Whether or not this sorcerer was right in guessing where your sense of shame comes from is irrelevant. He guessed correctly that it was there, and has exploited it. Thorin, you are the only one who knows how the curse affects you, and _you_ are the only one who can cure it. To be rid of this curse you must confront the source of your shame and resolve it.”

Those words hung thickly in the air, leaving Thorin to sit stunned in his chair. The sounds of talking all just faded out and he was left in silence.

What was it? What was the thing that had been eating him alive for the last two years? What had been on his mind every day, every hour, haunting him endlessly? 

That thing which filled him with such deep shame and split his heart in two?

As soon as Thorin had transformed into a wolf he had felt it. Deep in his chest, the burning, biting sensation that had always been there was suddenly impossible to ignore. So he had run, and run and run, heart leading him on. 

Because the source of his pain, of his shame could not be found in Erebor or in the lands of his allies.

It was nestled in amongst lush green hills and pastures, little rivers and bright, fertile fields bursting with life. It was within a flower-covered hill, in a cozy little hole in the ground. 

It was here. The only still spot in a room full of noise and movement. The only constant. Staring across the table at him with those, beautiful hazel eyes, full of such concern, such pain—it seared his very soul.

_Bilbo_

Deep within him, he felt the wolf howl in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had a few people express their concern on the lack of wolf cuddles in the last chapter. Have no fear, dear readers, the next few chapters, I think, should make you all very happy in regards to wolf-hobbit contact.
> 
> Just like to mention there is no Boffins (Bofur/Bilbo) in this fic, they're just really good friends. I really don't want to write a love triangle, this story is emotionally confusing enough. Also, no Dwalin/Arwen because I can't do that to Estel. They're just buddies waiting to happen.
> 
> Note: From what I understand 'cirth' is the written form of 'westron' the common language and what hobbits speak and write in.


	14. Things Said and Unsaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are said which are needed to be said, and Thorin struggles to understand how stone at times can be undermined by parchment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, remember when I said this would be out by the end of April? Wasn't that funny! HA AHAHAHAA... *facepalm*
> 
> Sorry, I've just started a new year-long course, and my sleeping scheduled is being brutally re-wired. But for real this time, the plot and (hopefully) pace of this fic will be picking up. Not as much sitting around and talking.
> 
> btw, this chapter is also 9000 words. I really don't know why this keeps happening, I aim for 6000ish, but this is just ridiculous.
> 
> ALSO badskippy was kind enough to point out my horrible error about Cirth. it is NOT the written form of common, but refers to khuzdul dwarf runes. I'm going to go back and fix that blooper, so let's all give a big thanks to badskippy for making sure we can tell our dwarvish from our common! Thank you! :)
> 
> Warnings for brief suicidal thoughts.

His fingers curled desperately in the fur beneath him as he hung on for dear life, the great, lunging gait of the wolf threatening to jostle him from his precarious perch on its back. Snow whipped at his face as the wolf quickened its already frantic pace, the howls erupting from around and behind them spurring him even faster. Thorin snarled into the frigid air of the cruel mountain pass, daring anything to hinder his way.

A gap suddenly appeared out of their ice covered rocky path in front of them. Thorin’s muscles tensing in anticipation was the only warning the hobbit had before the wolf sprung. Heart pounding in his ears Bilbo gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, tightened his grasp. 

Thorin’s paws left the ground. 

 

Xxx

 

Before the dissolving of ‘the Council’ a few more things were discussed.

Dwalin was assured that no, Tugûthul could not in fact, make the curse any worse than it already was. It was only there due to Thorin’s overwhelming negative emotions in the first place, and therefore could only be truly affected by the King at this point. Even if the sorcerer cast another spell, it would have no affect if there was nothing there for him to work with.

Second, there was the matter of Tugûthul’s stronghold. 

“The fortress lies north west of Mirkwood,” Gandalf said, “in the crook between the Misty Mountains and Ered Mithrin.”

“Gundabad,” Thorin cursed, as Dwalin spat, “That Bastard!”

Bilbo looked between the two with his head cocked to the side, “…Sorry, why are we cursing?”

It was Elrond who answered, “Mount Gundabad used to be considered sacred to dwarves before it was taken over by Sauron in the First Age.” Bilbo mouthed a silent _oh_ in understanding even as Thorin picked up the tale.

“Gundabad is the place where Durin the Deathless, our sacred ancestor, first awoke from his slumber,” his rich, deep voice held a trace of bitterness and his mouth thinned as he met the hobbit’s eyes across the table, “Three times it has been overrun by orcs, the most recent invasion being led by a certain pale orc who met his end two years ago at your blade and mine.”

“Azog.” Bilbo breathed, eyes wide.

Thorin nodded gravely, “We had hoped Gundabad would be free of the vile creatures after we killed so many of their number during the Battle, but if you say it is now held by this sorcerer—“

“Mount Gundabad is not home to Tugûthul.” The wizard stuck his long, bushy eyebrows out at the nonplused expressions of all but Elrond, “Though you are correct, his Fortress in in fact quite nearby.”

Arwen lent foreword folding her hands tighter on the table as Dwalin muttered at curse at the infuriating and vague wizard, “Mithrandir, could you perhaps tell us where it is, _exactly?_ ”

Gandalf cleared his throat, “This Fortress stands at the juncture where the river Langwell births from the mountains. If one was to follow the river back to its source they would find the Fortress there. However a large scale attack would be extremely difficult, as it is heavily fortified and surrounded by a jagged and rocky labyrinth of natural terrain. Not to mention the mountains are very close to the Northern Wastes, sustaining an army in such conditions would be near impossible.”

“If there is an army at the Fortress they could come upon Erebor as the Gundabad forces did, by traveling through the underground passages of Ered Mithin and striking from the North.” Arwen mused, “They already have an advantage, should Tugûthul choose to attack.”

“So we can’t attack him, but he can easily attack us.” Dwalin glowered, “Can’t say I’m too fond of these odds. Anyone have any ideas on what we do have in our favour?”

“I believe there is a way to weaken the sorcerer greatly, and cut him off from his power,” Said Gandalf.

“And that would be?” inquired Arwen.

“This kind of magic is completely different from what wizards and elves use. As I’ve mentioned, and as some of you have experienced, the sorcerer has the ability to animate objects and even the dead. Bilbo, you asked me what the sorcerer was. I believe you where on the right track in understanding his nature.”

“Urm, thank you? But I’m pretty sure I was just asking questions.”

“Nevertheless, it was a question that should have been asked. Thorin, Dwalin, can you recall the sorcerer’s voice?”

The two dwarvers exchanged glances before Thorin replied, “It was odd, it seamed to come from deep inside the man, but it was muffled sounding.”

Dwalin shook his head, “Just plain creepy, that’s what. Even the way he moves, it’s just wrong.”

“Ahh,” exclaimed the wizard, “So I am right. This is a very ancient, very dark magic we are dealing with.”

“Are ye goin’ to say what it is, or are ye just goin’ to keep sayin’ it’s an ancient magic over an over?” Gandalf cast a stern eye over at the tattooed warrior in displeasure.

“This sorcerer has the power to control the dead. He can animate a dead body or vessel so that it appears to be alive. Have any of you thought that such was the case with Tugûthul himself?”

There was a collective and stunned silence around the table, and Elrond slowly breathed in through his nose, “That is ancient magic indeed.”

“So the man is dead and his body is merely being controlled by a greater power,” Said Arwen.

“Not quite.” The wizard’s eyes narrowed, “He is not a man. Not anymore at least. He is not a wizard and as there are very, very few who can posses such magic without being one, I believe he has evoked a monstrous and ancient rite to give himself such power. He was the Necromancer’s disciple, of course he would have known about such a thing.”

“What ancient rite?” Said Thorin, gripping his hands around his goblet.

“A mortal body cannot handle such great power. Especially not human bodies. Elves have always had their own magic, especially those who have seen the light of Valinor, and dwarves similarly have their own kind. I have long suspected that hobbits as well may have a kind of affinity for it. But humans are different in how they handle it. Their spirits may become too powerful for their bodies and they can become something else entirely under the strain.”

“As did the nazgul, consumed by the great rings of power,” Elrond added sagely.

“In order for Tugûthul to stand his power, he had to transcend his human form. His true form is something else now, severed from his mortal body. He merely possesses it when it suits him. There is always a price for such dark, unnatural magic.”

The wind rattled against the windows, the rain turning to small, wet snowflakes that melted on impact with the glass. Bilbo shivered slightly.

“Plainly put, Tugûthul is no mere mortal,” Gandalf continued. “What you have seen of him is but a shell, a vessel controlled by his spirit. I suspect if you were to kill this sorcerer as you have seen him, he would not be harmed. Not truly”

“Then how do we make it so we can kill the bastard?” Dwalin growled.

“Once again we have Radagast to thank for this information. We believe that the source of his power, the true house of his spirit lies within this Fortress of his. His true form can no longer be sustained in a mortal body, though he may posses one, or many for a time. He will have taken residence in an object, something of great power, an orb of some kind I would imagine.” The wizard exchanged a glance at Elrond who’s eyes widened slightly in understanding.

“From this object Tugûthul can only project himself and see through those he possesses. If this source is destroyed, the sorcerer will be either forced into a more solid form he cannot sustain, or be lost to the abyss. Once he as been forced fully into a solid, mortal form, then he can be defeated.”

Bilbo asked nervously, “What kind of an object is it that we are looking for? I mean, I know you said an orb, but there would have to be something special about it right? He couldn’t just attach himself to anything. Could he?” 

Gandalf shook his head, “No, you are quite right. He cannot safely house himself in just any ordinary object. An ordinary vessel or even body can only endure the strain of such power for so long before it begins to break. Only an object of significant power could properly sustain his spirit 

Elrond’s voice lifted across the room, “You suspect Tugûthul has attached himself to a palantír.”

“He has found one of the lost stones.” Said Arwen, worry clear on her face, “Or perhaps he was gifted one from his master.”

“So we find this stone and destroy it and then the sorcerer will be killed?” Asked Dwalin, clearly getting a bit frustrated at all the side tracking and complications between the sorcerer and his inevitable demise at the end of an axe. Or two.

“Not quite, but he would be forced to inhabit a mortal body or vessel, which could then be destroyed, taking him along with it.”

“How could a palantír be destroyed?” Asked Arwen, “The seeing stones are said to be impossible to mar or damage, how could this be done?”

“Ah, now,” Gandalf raised his head slightly “this is where it gets interesting. Through possessing the palantír, Tugûthul has tied it to his own spirit, changing the very nature of the stone. It will sustain him, but the powers of the stone are weakened as should the stone itself be. I suspect with enough force applied to it, the stone would be destroyed.”

Dwalin cracked his knuckles threateningly, “An by force ye mean smash it with something heavy or sharp.” 

“That should suffice, Master Dwarf,” Gandalf replied, smiling.

Bilbo rubbed his arm distractedly, “How do we get to this palantír? I don’t suppose it would be just left out somewhere easy to get to.” 

“The stone resides somewhere within the Fortress, probably either in the tallest tower or in the very lowest of dungeons,” said Gandalf “Wherever it is guarded the most heavily.”

Elrond tapped his fingers slowly against the arm of his chair, “As we have discussed, it would be most foolhardy to attempt to lead an army across the cold plains and ruins to the mountains.” 

“What other choice do we have?” Asked Thorin.

“A frontal assault would be suicide,” said Arwen, “Do not forget that Gundabad, though greatly weakened from the Battle of Five Armies, is still a breading ground for wargs and has long been inhabited by orcs and goblins. An army could not hope to match upon it and arrive as whole as it left.”

Gandalf shook his head, “Offensive maneuvers will not work here. If we are to do this, I believe it may be done with a bit more subtlety than an army. Stealth appears to be our best course of action.”

“Yeah, look how well that worked for getting’ rid of Smaug. He destroyed and flattened Laketown,” Dwalin grumbled before hastening to send Bilbo an apologetic “No offense to ye, laddie.” 

Bilbo smiled and waved his hands complacently, “N-None taken, master Dwalin.”

“Ye couldn’t have done yer part any better than ye did.” The warrior said firmly, holding the hobbit’s gaze until the small creature looked down shyly at the completely unexpected support. Dwalin nodded before side eyeing the wizard, “Just the plan in general that was the problem.” 

Gandalf sniffed and raised his eyebrows, “The serpent is dead, is he not?”

“All I’m saying is that yer plan weren’t exactly harm free—”

“Enough.” All eyes turned to the dwarf King, “I will travel to this Fortress and I will destroy this stone.”

“Thorin, ye can’t—“

“I am still cursed,” Thorin said, cutting off his Guard Captain, “I can hardly return to Erebor in this state if everyone is already suspicious of me and my line. Besides, it would please me greatly to be able to inflict some damage to that wretched sorcerer in return.”

Dwain scowled, “Then I’m commin’ with ye. I can’t let ye go alone against that sorcerer.”

“Dwalin,” Thorin met the stern gaze of the warrior steadily, “I need you to go back to Erebor and defend my sister and her sons. There is no other I would trust to their safe keeping.”

“But ye cannae go alone.”

“He won’t be. I’m going with him.” All eyes turned to the hobbit “If, umm….” Bilbo stuttered, wringing his hands, “if you’ll have me.”

The King’s brow furrowed “Bilbo, no.”

“It’s my choice to make Thorin,” the hobbit replied slowly, “If I can help you, I will.”

“This is far too dangerous. I will not risk you to this mad sorcerer!”

“And just what are you planning to do once you get to his Fortress?” Bilbo snapped, irritation taking over, “You will need someone who can move quickly and silently, and I have more than proven myself in being capable of both.”

Anger flashed through the dwarf’s eyes and he clenched his fists, “This is no concern of yours, hobbit, do not act as if it is!”

“It does concern me Thorin, because it concerns _you!_ And I will not stand idle when my friends are in danger and I know I can be of use.”

The King slammed his fists down on the table and stood, “I forbid it.” Bilbo flinched faintly and something inside the dwarf cried out in pain at the sight of it. But the hobbit remained firm. 

“You are not my King, Thorin Oakenshield, and we are not in your Kingdom. I am going to this Fortress and I am going to find this cursed stone and destroy it, and I will do this with or without your help or consent. I will be using what ever skills I have if they can be of any help.”

The hobbit rose from his feet and stared at the dwarf, eyes defiant even as his hands shook. “I had hoped you would be more courteous to those who only try to help you, King Under the Mountain. But I see little has changed in that regaurd.” His voice broke on the last word, and turned stiffly to Lord Elrond and mumbled a quick, “Please excuse me,” before swiftly leaving the room, his distress evident in the hunch of his shoulders.

Thorin silently cursed himself and uncurled his fingers from his now bleeding palms. For just once, just once, could he not hurt this hobbit? Why did all his good intentions always end up hurting the one person he only wished to protect?

The silence in the room was only broken by the loud _thwack_ of Dwalin cuffing his King up the back of his head.

Xxx

It was decided that Gandalf would accompany Dwalin back to Erebor. The wizard would personally see what could be done about Tugûthul gaining power, and about the disturbances within the mountain. If he could counteract any of his magic or expose him as the Necromancer’s disciple, he would.

Traveling with them would be Arwen, who’s destination was Mirkwood. It was up to her to explain the political turmoil within Erebor and the true threat Tugûthul posed to the elven King. It was largely agreed that Thranduil would be more likely to trust the word of a fellow elf than that of the line of Durin.

“Gandalf, a word?” Gandalf raised his impressive eyebrows and stared down at the dwarf King. It was unnerving. Thorin had stopped the wizard just a their little council had been adjourned and the others began to leave. Dwalin shot his fried a sharp look before stalking out, closing the door behind him.

“And what would the King of Erebor have to say to an old man?” Ah. Seemed Gandalf was still angry. Angry would be a polite word for it. 

The wizard had been furious, threatening to curse Thorin or cause him bodily harm should he not remove the banishment placed on the hobbit, and when he had remained firm Gandalf only refrained from destroying Thorin due to the inevitable political disaster. He had however washed his hands of the dwarf King and swore that as long as Bilbo’s banishment stood, no help would come from him.

Apparently Gandalf hadn’t forgotten his anger. Not to mention his earlier yelling display just a while ago was most certainly not acting in his favour.

“Bilbo.” That was all that could come out of Thorin’s mouth, much to his frustration. But perhaps it was all that he had needed to say.

“Ah yes, Bilbo Baggins. What would the King inquire about the hobbit?” The man’s voice was devoid of it’s usual warmth.

“I inquire _of_ him.” Thorin gulped, willing himself to hold firm, “His well being” the wizard’s gaze narrowed dangerously.

“I would think his current well being is somewhat compromised at the moment, wouldn’t you?” 

Thorin breathed in sharply at the implication. The hurt was well deserved. “I mean in general. How was he before I…” Thorin trailed off, unable to finish.

“It seams Master Baggins has been worse for wear these past years,” Gandalf remarked icily.

“That has not escaped me, wizard,” the dwarf snapped.

“Are you certain it hasn’t? Or do you know but simply do not care for his wellbeing?” 

“How can I not care when it is all I think of!” Thorin felt the wolf push through and suddenly he could not keep up the façade of impassivity or cool majesty any more, “His house, his little smial that he would never stop talking about all the way to Erebor—in near shambles,” he nearly yelled, “I was only there for one night and any fool could tell he loved the place to death, and yet there it was, unkempt, piles of books and parchments everywhere, and dust. And as for the hobbit himself, he looked nothing like he did last he was in his home.”

“And why would this concern the Great Thorin Oakenshield?”

“How could you let him come to this? Are you not his friend? Could you have but done something—“

“Thorin Oakenshield!” The image of the old, frail man was lifted, and suddenly Thorin could see the powerful, immortal being underneath. Power cackled through the air and the wizard seemed to grow, “Do not ever again question my affection towards Bilbo Baggins.” Thorin flinched back, but Gandalf shrunk back down to his usual self before continuing less harshly, “He is very dear to me, and if it were in my power to see him whole and hale I would have done so. But it is not I that has this power.”

“Then what—?”

“You must take responsibility for your actions, Thorin, King Under the Mountain.”

“I have apologized for my actions, I pleaded with him on my knees to forgive me for my past behavior. And even though I did not deserve it he forgave me. He’s been kind to me ever since. So why did he look as if he expected Dwalin to crush him? And what was the cause of his sudden disappearance earlier today?!“

“You can ask yourself the same questions for that is where you will find the answer!” Before Thorin could make sense of the accusation the wizard cut in “Tell me, you have said you have apologized for your actions and been forgiven. Did you say which actions you were apologizing for?”

“No,” replied Thorin bitterly, “I have no right to. So much of my conduct towards that hobbit has been cruel and harsh, I doubt I could name each offense had I the heart to.”

“While such feelings are commendable you are doing more harm than not.” Thorin’s head shot up, “I do not ask for every offense. Tell me, Thorin. Why was Bilbo so frightened of violence from Dwalin earlier? Why is he acting as if he were still banished and could be marched back to Erebor to face trial by any dwarf that set eyes on him? Why did he flinch from you as if expecting a blow?”

“I swear to you that the banishment is lifted, as soon as I came to my senses I revoked it, all of it! Bilbo Baggins is known as dwarf friend and the savior of Erebor, he is to be welcomed and honored in any dwarven settlement he enters and by any dwarf he meets.”

“And does Bilbo know this? Have you actually told him his banishment has been revoked?”

“Of course I—“ And then Thorin realized with horrible clarity, that he hadn’t. He had assumed his behavior would say as much, treating Bilbo familiarly, apologizing for—for what? What had he apologized for? His actions? Treating the hobbit poorly? 

But not the banishment. Even if Bilbo believed he had regretted the banishment, he had never told him it had been lifted.

Unbidden came the image of the hobbit’s terror stricken gaze as Thorin threatened him at Bag End, his nightmares, the haunted almost resigned expression on his face whenever Thorin snapped at him, his fear at facing Dwalin—

The King reeled. So much fear and hurt he had put his poor hobbit through, and all because Thorin had been a coward and neglected to tell him his banishment was renounced.

_Oh Mahal._

Xxx

 

The ground in the courtyard was covered in a thick layer of snow. Packing snow, Bilbo’s toes informed him as he made his way through the frozen clearing, the kind that would not melt away with the sunlight. It had been falling heavier and heavier, and this morning was the first that he had seen it still thickly covering the walkways of the elven city when he had risen. Elves were still working to clear it all away even now.

Bilbo adjusted his colourful scarf more snugly around his neck. It was his mother’s scarf. Warm and soft but also durable and heavily detailed with little snowflakes and animal figures stitched into a colourful pattern.

Belladonna herself was awful at knitting or crocheting, any thing with threads or yarn besides basic clothing repairs she simply had not cared for. It was Bilbo’s father, Bungo, who had the knack for such tedious crafts. The ever-patient hobbit had taught his son how to sew and tailor his own cloths, how to work yarn and weave, and most importantly how to know his way around the kitchen.

His parents were always defying expectations, Bungo being the more peace loving and homey of the two and Belladonna being bold and nearly fearless. Pottery was his mother’s joy, along with painting and sketching. Few could match her skill with clay, and she was perhaps the only hobbit in the shire to use outlandish patterns and designs on her ware.

The scarf was lovingly made by his father as a gift to his wife to keep her warm on her outings and adventures. Belladonna had derived endless joy from showing it off to the other married hobbit women and proudly displaying her husband’s skill and affection in turn.

It was understandably one of Bilbo’s most treasured possessions, not to mention favourite scarf as it had a bit of both of his parents wrapped into a warm and colourful package. He kept a loose hold on it now as he sat on a stone in the middle of the courtyard, toes cold in the snow, and signed.

_Well Baggins, looks like you’ve made a mess of things again._

 

But really, what had he expected? Even if Thorin had forgiven him, even if his banishment was revoked—then what? Would he travel back to Erebor, see his friends and watch the one person he loved from a distance, dreading the day when he would find someone worthy of his affections. Watch as he married and settled down with a queen?

Bilbo huffed a laugh and roughly ran a hand through his curls. No. Even when he and Thorin had been close, that was all it ever was. Just friends. Companions. Perhaps even brothers in arms. But what need did the King Under the Mountain have for a silly little hobbit who was so wrapped up in self pity all the time? And who’s best intentions only seemed to lead to making situations even worse?

The last thing Thorin needed right now was more complications. No need to throw a hobbit into the mix. 

Though, he would have loved to see his friends again. Just one more time, even. It would break his heart but at least he would get to say goodbye.

He swung his legs absentmindedly. No, there was no way it could work. He would just be a nuisance in a Kingdom of dwarves, too weak to be of use and too easy to get underfoot. It wasn’t as if dwarves were particularly welcoming people either, Bilbo could remember all to well his original reception at joining Thorin’s Company to attest to that. Imagine how a whole Kingdom of dwarves would treat the soft, treacherous little hobbit who had back stabbed the King, stolen the Arkenstone and was considered an elf friend.

Bilbo shuddered. Erebor was not an option. Not a long term one, anyway. He would do everyone a favour and go back to his Shire where—

_Nobody cares for you, Bilbo_

_Why don’t you do us all a favour and disappear for good this time_

_It’s only a shame you didn’t have the decency to die on your first little trip_

He breathed in harshly and clenched his eyes shut. Lobelia’s words from months ago echoed through his head and he fisted his hands in his scarf. Oh how those words hurt. Somehow he could not be free of them. Some part of him believed it and refused to let it go.

Eventually he calmed down enough to breath out slowly and gently relax his hands. Very slowly his heart began to slow from it’s rapid pace. Yes. He would return to the Shire as ‘Mad Baggins’ where he would endure the gossip of his fellow hobbits and their blind prejudice against anything which differed from their unrelenting propriety.

With a bit of luck he wouldn’t live very long and finally make everyone happy by dying and leaving behind Bag End and his possessions.

_Come now, Bilbo. It’s not as bad as all that now, is it?_

The small voice in the back of his head sounded suspiciously like Gandalf. Or maybe Balin.

_There is still life in you yet, dear boy. Don’t let them be right about you after all._

Bilbo rubbed at his eyes and huffed a laugh. Hearing voices now, oh good.

_What about Thorin? He needs your help now, lad. You of all people know how stubborn and reckless he can be._

Now there was a thought. The great lug of a dwarf could truly be a hazard to himself. The thought of Thorin alone trying to infiltrate some impenetrable Fortress was enough to give the hobbit a headache. Awful sod couldn’t be stealthy to save his life.

And Bilbo had said he would help. Even if he hurt himself greatly in the process (not to mention the probable damage to his poor heart) he did not think he could bare it if he didn’t help Thorin in his time of need. Not when he could actually be useful and have some sense of purpose again.

Perhaps if he helped his dwarf now he would be one step closer to forgiving himself for taking the Arkenstone.

The crunch of snow under heavy boot startled Bilbo from his thoughts, and his head whipped around wildly.

“I am sorry, I did not mean to frighten you.”

“I-It’s alright. Just been a bit on edge lately.” When the dwarf made no move to say anything Bilbo shifted uncomfortably.

“Why don’t you have a seat?” He gestured at the large, flat stone he was sitting on, scooting to the side.

“I think I will stay standing for this.”

“Oh.” Right. Much too familiar. The dwarf took a deep breath and seemed to be wrestling with himself, eyes fixed firmly on the ground just in front of Bilbo’s feet. A small muscle twitched just above his eye after a good minute of tensed silence, and the dwarf cursed softly and turned away, hands clenching.

“I still stand by what I said you know.” Bilbo said quietly, rubbing his ankles together nervously as Thorin snapped around to face him, “I’m going with you. If I can help you, please, just let me.” The hobbit looked down at his toes and felt his throat constrict, unable to face the dwarf King, “If not out of friendship, then consider it a repayment of debt. Will you suffer this thief to try and atone for his crimes?”  
Heavy, iron tipped boots stormed their way into his vision fixed on the ground, and he looked up to see Thorin standing before him, face twisted into something painful, “I…I’ve been a coward, and an insensitive fool. I have let you suffer with fear and anxiety all this time on account of my ignorance.”

“Thorin.”

“I meant to tell you,” The dwarf struggled to keep his composure, “I thought I had, I thought my actions would speak for me where my words failed, but alas, I’ve treated you so poorly of course you could not know that I—”

The dwarf sunk down on one knee in front of the startled hobbit, the snow cold through the fabric of his trousers. Bilbo’s eyes widened, and he was reminded immediately of Thorin’s apology out in the field of corn.

“Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo and Belladonna,” the dwarf’s voice was low and solem, stricking the hobbit to his core, “I Thorin II Oakenshield, son of Thror, son of Thrain, King under the Mountain, do hereby revoke your banishment.”

Bilbo let out something between a strangled cry and a sob, hands rising to cover his mouth.

“I would take back my hateful words if I could, but I know that I cannot, however much I wish it were so. But please know this: Ever since the sickness lifted from my eyes, far and wide I have the great deeds of Bilbo Baggins known, loyalist and truest of companions, willing to sacrifice all for a cause not his own. You are known as the saviour of Erebor, and the honored champion of her king.”

“I…” The usualy stoic and proud dwarf looked so lost in that moment, so unsure. His shulders shook minutely and he clenched his jaw so tight Bilbo feared he would crack his teeth. When he finally spoke the words were quiet and tentative, “I hold you in only the highest and fondest reguard.”

The hobbit lunged foreward and all but crumpled onto the snow, clutching at the dwarf’s hands. “It was for you,” he started, “you have to know-I did it to save you, save everyone. I thought if I forced your hand, you could put all the blame on me but still form an alliance with the elves and men. Please Thorin, I didn’t want to betray you, but I c-couldn’t let you die—I had to try!” The words tumbled out of him, and he couldn’t have stopped them if he wanted to. Too long had they been bottled up inside, too long had he let his guilt eat away at him.

The large, calloused hands he held in his were tugged away, and he nearly sobbed at the loss when warm, strong arms came around him, pulling him in close. Bilbo sniffled into Thorin’s chest as he shook.

“Hear me, dear hobbit,” the low, deep voice washed over him, “it is forgiven. I should have known that you of all people would not betray me unless it was somehow in my favour, or if there was no other way. I only despair that I left you with such a bitter dilemma.” The arms around him tightened protectively, “You deserved none of it, Bilbo. It is I who should apologize to you.”

The hobbit buried his face deeper into the warm, solid chest before him. How often he had dreamed of being back in these very arms. He took comfort in the furnace like heat and utter safeness surrounding him, “Then, I suppose, we are at an impasse, as we each believe the other to be more in the right.”

He pulled back and met Thorin’s concerned and suspiciously watery eyes, “Of course I forgive you.” 

The dwarf signed raggedly, eyes closing in relief, “Thank you. It is more than I deserve. But know I owe you much more than mere words.”

“No gold, please. I won’t be held accountable for my actions if you show up with a chest of it,” Bilbo said, startling a huffed laugh from the dwarf.

“It’s worth is not enough anyhow.”

“But could you do one thing for me?”

“Name it,” the dwarf replied immediately.

Bilbo wiped at his nose surreptitiously, “Let me come with you,” Thorin’s eyes widened, “Let me help you now, if I can. I do not wish to follow behind you in secret, but I will if you forbid my company.”

“I cannot promise your safety,” he said lowly, eyes tortured, “and I have no desire to see more harm come to you.” 

“Grant me this, please,” Bilbo said softly, “so that I may begin to believe I deserve your forgiveness.” 

He was pulled back into place against the dwarf’s chest, safe and warm. He found he was not upset in the slightest with the arrangement.

 

Xxx

“You take care of that dwarf now, my dear hobbit.”

“I’ll certainly try.”

The wizard smiled down at the hobbit, hand on his shoulder. Gandalf, Dwalin and Arwen were to depart for Mirkwood and the Lonely Mountain today. Thoirn and Bilbo would leave tomorrow for the Fortress. Elrond had insisted on making sure the hobbit had warm enough clothing that was tailored to his size, so they waited an extra day to see them done.

 

“Take care of yourself too,” something papery and cylindrical was pressed into his hands and he frowned in confusion “Just in case,” Gandalf winked at him and swept over to Elrond. Bewildered, the hobbit glanced down. A firecracker. Wrapped in colourful red wrapping, the cylinder tube was no longer than the length of his forearm. Shaking his head Bilbo slowly and carefully pocketed the thing, wondering when he would ever need to use that? Nevertheless he made a note to pack it.

Better safe than sorry, after all.

Xxx

An hour after they Thorin and Bilbo set out, snow started to fall heavily. Elrond had warned them of the oncoming storm, but Thorin was adamant at their departure. Now that he had some idea how to defeat the sorcerer, nothing could hold him back. Not even the thick, full blanket of clouds across the sky.

They struck out to the North and East, making for the mountain pass the company had crossed the previous time. Gandalf and his party had taken the high pass, a separate path, more to the south. Being aware now of what a Goblin cave looked like, Bilbo hoped they could avoid it this time.

Once they crossed the mountains they would go North, cross the Rushdown river, and keep going further and further north until they hit the Langwell river, from there following it back to the fortress.

That was the plan anyhow. But as he cast his gaze around the increasingly rocky path, the ominous sky seemed to press down on the little hobbit, and he doubted it would be as easy as all that.

He would find out later that he was right.

Xxx

Bilbo blinked awake slowly sometime in the late night. He snuggled in closer to his blankets and furs and closed his eyes to go back to sleep when the tell tale sound of snow crunching softy drew his attention. He cast a bleary glance towards the sound, catching sight of a great, fluffy wolf pacing restlessly in the snow just outside of the little rocky overhang they had camped under. 

“Thorin?” he mumbled sleepily.

The wolf’s ears twitched and he stilled, turning his head towards the fur wrapped hobbit. The little thing was still tucked in snugly, but soft hazel eyes gazed up at him in mild confusion. 

“Can’t sleep?” The wolf huffed in affirmation, going back to his pacing. Bilbo sighed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, digging himself out of his little nest of furs. “Me neither,” he murmured, climbing to his feet and drawing his coat tighter around himself.

Thorin stopped his nervous movements and faced the hobbit. His icy eyes narrowed and he fixed Bilbo with a look. 

“What? I can’t. If I could I would be asleep, but as we’re here talking I think it’s safe to say we’re both awake right now. Unless if this is just some odd dream of mine, in which case it shouldn’t really matter what we do at all.”

Thorin glowered suspiciously at the hobbit, standing with his hands wrapped tightly around himself, clearly half asleep on his feet. Eventually Thorin huffed and prowled over to the smaller creature, leaning over to nose and snuffle him in the chest. Bilbo patted the great head absentmindedly

“I’m surprised how light it is considering it’s well past midnight.” The snow around them everywhere gave off a soft, muted light making their surroundings stand out brighter than the sky. “Thorin, as we’re both awake and as it’s remarkably easy to see, why don’t we keep going?”

The wolf’s ears twitched. Thorin was anxious to reach the mountains of Gundabad. The desire to confront his enchanter and to possibly destroy him kept the dwarf from his sleep and with the wolf it had been no different. 

Except that all the wolf wanted was to snuggle up to that small bundle of warm, cuddly, sleeping hobbit and rest his great furry head atop of the little creature to ensure he was kept warm and safe and snug. 

So his struggling and conflicting emotions had pulled and pushed at him until he found himself pacing restlessly.

On the one hand, the sooner he could destroy this palantír, the sooner Tugûthul would be defeated. But on the other, his own personal curse could only be broken by his confronting and accepting his shame. And his wolf insistently informed him the source of that shame was right before him, so delectably cuddly and soft, and so terribly far from his safe little Shire.

But what right did Thorin have to inflict himself on Bilbo Baggins? After everything, what right did he have to even be in the presence of such an incredible being?

Eventually, the wolf huffed and turned, pressing his head against Bilbo’s hands and whining contentedly when he was petted and scratched.

“Let’s find this Fortress, shall we?”

Thorin found it much easier to travel as a wolf. His body was stronger over such increasingly rugged terrain, four strong legs and gripping claws increasing his ease greatly. Thick fur kept him warm without the hindrance of clothing, and though he had his modified pack slung around him, movement was much easier in this form. 

He had tugged Bilbo’s pack away from him when the hobbit had gone to reach for it, and refused to give it back, no matter the protest. He could handle both his and the hobbit’s pack easily in his normal dwarf form, but as a wolf it was even easier. No matter how much Bilbo pouted and stamped his feet, Thorin just nipped at his coat and shrugged his pack on as well. His body could move through the snow and ice easily, and the strain of the mountainous incline was almost non-existent.

Unfortunately, this was not true of hobbits. 

Though he struggled on bravely for the first few hours, when the path began to incline and the wind picked up the hobbit began to struggle. A thick covering of snow lay on everything, and the towering mountains jutted up like great, jagged teeth, looming out of thick clouds of snow. 

A tiring climb to any human, but to a hobbit with shorter legs (and, well, shorter everything) and a rather ill rested one at that, traveling in the wee hours of the morning—well. He did admirably, all things considering. Better than, but it can be understood then, why Bilbo Baggins was perhaps not quite as nimble footed as was his usual wont that cold night.

Thorin was a little ways ahead, sniffing out the safest path and clearing some of the snow. It wasn’t overly high, only a foot or so, but with the incline and harsh mountain passage it could easily become treacherous. Bilbo dragged his feet through the snow, scowling at the general cold and uncomfortableness of slugging through a frozen mountain pass. He had to take large steps to clear his feet of the snow, but found himself rapidly loosing the energy to do so. So he dragged his feet through it and tried to ignore the muscles in his calves straining. 

He had just set his foot down again when he felt it move. Before he realized what was happening there was a sudden jolt in his stomach and the awful, disorienting feeling of falling took him as his vision flipped and he could feel his feet leaving the ground. He didn’t feel anything at all for a second and had time to think _I hate falling_ before the blaring pain of impact jarred him back down into his body with a vengeance.

He landed on his back, hard, his head following after. He blearily realized he must have made some kind of a sound as suddenly there was a cold nose prodding at his face and fur tickling his skin. His eyes opened from where he had closed them, his head ringing and vision blurry. He groaned.

Something wet slid up the side of his face and as he squinted he could make out something large and white-ish and furry licking him slowly, large bulk directly over him.

“T-Thorin…” Bilbo slowly raised his hands and clutched the soft fur, using them to grip and haul himself up into a sitting position. The wolf was whining in concern, ears pointed back and body positioned to block the most of the wind from the smaller prone being.

“Ohh…sorry about that,” Bilbo said, reaching back to touch the back of his head. He brought it around and sighed in relief when it came back free of blood. “Oww. Must have slipped on some ice. Alright, help me up. What?” He yelped, as Thorin growled lowly in warning, pressing the hobbit back down with his head.

“Will you lay off you great furry lug?” Bilbo swatted at the wolf as best as he could, “I’m not injured! Just bumped by head, that’s all.” 

But Thorin would not be budged. He sat himself down squarely on top of the hobbit’s legs and stomach, and then gently but firmly pressed his head down on Bilbo’s torso, squashing the smaller creature firmly under him. Thorin ignored his little squeaks of indignity (though he secretly enjoyed the sound) and settled himself.

“Ack!” Bilbo spit out the little bits of fur that were in his mouth and tried to direct his best glare at his new ridiculous, furry blanket, “Thorin! This is uncomfortable! I’ve got rocks and ice digging into my back, not to mention my head! And if the reason I’m being squished is out of concern then it’s rather counter-productive, don’t you think?” Thorin huffed but still did not move, far too comfortable snuggling his cuddly (and injured) little hobbit.

“In case you haven’t noticed, we are right smack in the middle of the road where we are vulnerable to all kinds of things! At the very least can we please keep moving until we find some kind of shelter?”

Bilbo hid a smirk in the wolf’s fur as he growled unhappily. Thorin raised himself up and glared down at the hobbit lying beneath him, reluctant to loose the close contact. Bilbo raised his eyebrows, “Come on, you know it’s really not safe here.”

Thorin leaned down and firmly licked Bilbo from jaw to forehead in retaliation, grinning smugly at his scandalized spluttering. 

“Uugh! Was that really necessary Thorin Oakeshield?!” Bilbo squirmed out from under the wolf and wiped at his face with his sleeves, looking back at his companion in disgust. “As if having me covered in your fur isn’t enough, you have to go and slobber all over me as well, you great big beast.”

Thorin was quick to support the hobbit when he stood, frowning at his slight waver. The quickly concealed grimace solidified the wolf’s resolve, and he gently leaned the length of his body against Bilbo’s right side. He felt a hand touch briefly to his back before the hobbit slid his hand to the spot between Thorin’s shoulder blades, curling his fingers in the warm fur.

Bilbo sighed, “…Thank you.” Thorin barked and brushed his tale against the bare calf of his hobbit, tugging Bilbo forward as he began to move and offering himself as a crutch to the slightly dazed hobbit.

The two companions started moving again, the only sounds surrounding them being the wind whistling by and the steady _crunch_ of their passage through the snow. The wolf cleared most of the worst of it and pulled the hobbit through what he couldn’t. 

Theses were the only sounds they heard aside from the occasional comment from Bilbo or the odd snuffle or whine from Thorin for a long while. It was only until much later, when the sun had risen and painted the rugged mountain path in a soft glowing light that another sound cut through the icy air like a knife.

Thorin stilled and jerked at the first faint warg howl. He snarled in warning bearing his teeth and pressed himself closer against Bilbo, trying to keep the hobbit blocked off from potential attackers. Bilbo gasped and looked around, trying to determine which way the howl had come from.

“Thorin,” he breathed, his other hand clutching anxiously at his colourful scarf, “Are they nearby? Do they have our scent?” The wolf went still for a long moment, a slight growl building in his chest. Bilbo strained his ears as much as he could against the harsh winds and the snow being whirled around through the rocky pass.

A second howl suddenly split through the muffled air, quickly being joined by a third and forth, each appearing progressively closer to their little huddle on the road. 

Bilbo registered Thorin snarling before the wolf dropped to the ground and rolled his body into the hobbit’s legs, causing him to topple over on top of the wolf’s back and their combined packs. He yelped and clutched desperately at the leather bags as Thorin rose to his feet, shrugged his shoulders to further adjust his unwitting hobbit passenger, and took off at a steady lope. Bilbo squawked and straightened himself as best as he could, slinging his right leg firmly over the ridge of Thorin’s moving back so he properly straddled the wolf. 

Riding a wolf was very, very different from riding a pony, Bilbo decided, hunched over and clutching desperately to the large, heaving body underneath him, fingers tightly gripping the fur and leather. For one, there was no saddle or stirrups or reigns, leaving him digging fingers and arms and legs to grasp desperately at his unexpected mount.

Second, this was a wolf, and with a few exceptions wolves were shaped and moved entirely differently to tame little pony’s. 

Finally, this wolf was actually an enchanted dwarf, Thorin Oakenshield no less. And Bilbo was riding him. 

Suddenly all he could think of was that he was _riding Thorin Oakenshield,_ and a small, Baggins part of him was blushing like some scandalized tween at the Midsummer Festival.

_No time for that now, focus!_

Thorin picked up speed and pounded up the steepening path, paws crunching the snow beneath them and sending it flying as he ran. The altitude had slowly crept higher and higher before spiking, and as they rounded a particularly sharp bend Bilbo noticed dizzily how very, very high up they were, even through the mist of white covering the mountain side.

His fingers curled desperately in the fur beneath him as he hung on for dear life, the great, lunging gait of the wolf threatening to jostle him from his precarious perch on his back. Snow whipped at his face as Thorin quickened his already frantic pace, the howls erupting from around and behind them spurring him even faster. Thorin snarled into the frigid air of the cruel mountain pass, daring anything to hinder his way.

A gap suddenly appeared out of their ice covered rocky path in front of them. Thorin’s muscles tensing in anticipation was the only warning the hobbit had before the wolf sprung. Heart pounding in his ears Bilbo gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, tightened his grasp. 

Thorin’s front paws left the ground.

He touched down on the opposite side of the sudden fissure, taking care to smooth the movement as much as he could to keep his hobbit passenger seated, and took off down the path, not stopping to turn back and see if they were still being pursued.

Bilbo opened his eyes and twisted back slightly, catching sight of a few wargs snapping and snarling across the fissure at them, unable to clear such a gap. Their howls echoed across the frigid mountains, carried by the wind. 

Slowly the sound became fainter and fainter the further along they went. The hobbit finally released his death grip on Thorin’s fur, rubbing at his cramped fingers through his mittens.

 

Xxx

 

“Rest, I will keep watch.”

“What? No no, you rest. You’ve been carrying both me and our packs for hours and hours, I can keep watch.”

They had kept moving until it was well past mid morning, only stopping when Thorin sniffed out a little cave tucked away fro the main path and largely hidden by a few fallen boulders. The snow cover only added to the camouflage.

Thorin had barely lowered himself to let the wind lashed hobbit slid off his back when he began to transform, and Bilbo turned away and tried not to blush. He kept his back turned as the dwarf pulled out his clothing from his pack, and then they had begin to set up camp for the ‘night’, agreeing that more ground was covered when Thorin was in his wolf form.

“You are injured.”

The hobbit rolled his eyes, busy pulling out some of their food supplies, “Oh please, it was a bump. No blood, no lingering dizziness, just some mild bruising I’m sure.”

“Head injuries can be very serious Bilbo.”

“I know, Thorin.” Bilbo said quietly, stilling, “I’ve had a concussion before, I know how it feels.” Thorin stiffened at the implication, something dark curling in his stomach. He had thrown the hobbit out the dwarven camp before he got a good look at him after the battle. Had he been injured then? Had Bilbo been in need of the healers and Thorin had denied him that aid? The dwarf’s lips thinned.

“Then we will take turns.”

“Turns?” Bilbo raised his head and his eyes lit up suddenly, “Yes, good. Turns are good.” 

Thorin crossed his arms and glared pointedly at the little creature, “So go ahead then, have your rest.”

“What? Oh no no, this is my turn for watch,” Bilbo deflected pleasantly.

“Hobbit,” He growled in warning.

“I will wake you once my turn is up, or I cannot stay awake any longer. So please, my King,” he gave a little flourish with his hands and smiled up at the dwarf charmingly, “make yourself comfortable.”

The King narrowed his eyes, “ _I_ will be taking the first watch and _you_ will be resting now, Master Baggins.”

“Under no circumstances! I wouldn’t want you to be woken up by transforming into a wolf, which is what will happen if you take the second watch. It must be an awfully uncomfortable wake up call, so I will take the first watch and spare you that discomfort.”

Thorin countered, “I won’t have you tending a new fire on your watch with the wood being so damp. I am much more experienced with controlling the flames and smoke. If it smokes over much it may lead enemies right to our camp. If it were to go out on you, you would freeze and wake me with your chattering teeth. It is better I have the first watch and spare both of us the unpleasant experience.”

Of course, the true reason both were insisting on the first watch had little to do with sleeping preferences or fires. Neither had any intentions of waking the other for their turn, both believing their respective companion deserved an undisturbed sleep more than themselves due to the events of the day (and pervious night).

“Alright then, lets draw on it!”

Thorin raised one eyebrow as the hobbit whipped off the fluffy mitten on his right hand and thrust his fist before the dwarf, who stared at it blankly. 

“What are you doing, Bilbo?”

“We are—don’t you know? Oh goodness, you mean you don’t know about rock-paper-scissors?”

“Rock. Paper. Scissors?” Thorin repeated stonily. The hobbit’s eyes widened in surprise and—pity?

“Ohh you poor thing, you really don’t know! Here, here, let me show you,” the hobbit flopped down in front of the bewildered dwarf and pulled on his arms until they were both seated on the floor of the cave facing each other.

And that was how Bilbo Baggins came to instruct the King Under the Mountain on how to play rock-paper-scissors, in a little cave stashed away somewhere along the great, frozen length of the Misty Mountains.

Xxx

“Tell me again, why does paper defeat rock?”

“It just—it just _does_ , Thorin.”

“Hmm.”

“Oh come on. It’s like that old saying: ‘the quill is mightier than the sword’. It—umm. Thorin, why are you—are you chocking? Ahh, do you, would you perhaps like some water—?”

“What _blasphemy_ is _that?!”_

“What, water?”

“ _How_ is the quill mightier than the sword? How?”

“Uggh, you know what? Never mind. Just hold your bloody fist out and let’s get this over with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, rock-paper-scissors. 
> 
> And don't worry. The wolf-snuggles have just begun. The things I have planned, you have no idea *cackling.*


	15. Under the Endless Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys....help.... This chapter is too long! I don't quite know what happened, but have 12,000 words or so, why don't you!
> 
> I hope it makes up for the awful gap. Thank you all for being so patient, by the way. You guys are the best! :)
> 
>  **Warnings** for some mildly graphic violence and injury. Mostly in the last part of the chapter.

The miner ran through the tunnel pursued by the distinctive clanking of legs, too many legs, slender and clawed and sharp. Creepers. There were hundreds of the things, erupting out of fissures and pits that were previously bare, now alive with the crawling, creeping insect-like abominations they were named after.

He cleared the tunnel and ran into a large cavern, spinning around to desperately to see how many of his team had made it out of the deep mines safely. They had been down in the Eastern Mines, working on an old fissure when long, spindly legs had suddenly wormed their way out of the cracks in the rock followed by their armored owners, falling on the miners with sharp pincers and claws. They had had precious little time to act, to sound the alarm and evacuate, make their way up towards the upper levels were the guards were hopefully making their way down.

It was no good fighting a creeper in the narrow of a tunnel or mine-shaft. 

“Come on, move it lads!” He called, ushering his fellow miners towards the exit passageway. As head of his team, it was his duty to see to the safety of his dwarrow and gave a quick count to see who all was accounted for. Just missing two then.

The dwarf made to go back into the tunnel when out came Hesta, covered in grime and dragging a limping Guri under her arm. He hurried over to the pair, pulling Guri’s arm over his shoulder, “Thank the maker! Let’s go!”

“Aye chief, couldn’t pay me ta stay!” The dame shouted as they raced across the cavern.

Something clanked down in front of them causing the group to halt. Pale and white-ish, the rolled up ball was as large as a boar. 

“Go!” The head miner yelled, pushing Hesta and her charge away and around the thing. He swung his mattock up as it began to uncurl, plates of armor along its back sliding over another as it straightened, long, sharp legs unfurling from it’s protective position.

He struck down at a small patch of the softer underside, made visible only by the awkward uncurling. The creeper gave a high pitched squeal at the contact and thrashed wildly, and he struck it once more, ducking around the flailing pincers and razor sharp appendages. Not waiting to see if he had killed the thing he bolted for the exit.

They were everywhere now. Crawling along the sides of the walls, the ceiling –  
Where the last one must have dropped from – and very soon they’d be well on their way up and into the upper levels of the Kingdom. The living areas. 

It had happened before, after all.

The dwarf pushed his floppy hat out of his eyes and cursed as he dodged another creeper that fell from the cavern ceiling. Those guards had better be here soon. His odds weren’t looking quite so nice otherwise.

“Bofur, duck!” 

He dropped to the ground at the call of his name and felt more than saw something sail through the air over his head. There was a large _boom_ and everything rattled and shook. He was hit with the sharp blast of hot air and little stones and dust that rained down on him. That distinct smell could only mean dynamite. Coupled with the explosion of course and he was certain of it. He coughed a shook his head, dust flying from his hat.

The creepers were shrieking. He could feel them dropping to the ground from the blast, stunned and wreathing.

A figure waved to him from the cavern exit, “Get up! Bofur, over here!”

The miner lunged to his feet and bolted away from the sluggish clicks and clatters. He certainly didn’t need to be told twice. No thank ‘ee. He cleared the cave and met the other dwarf who immediately grabbed his arm and started running back up the tunnel, yanking him along.

“Me team, did they—“

“All out, it’s just you now,” Bofur followed the dwarf up a flight of stairs and through a series of smaller tunnels, all steadily rising in incline.

“Do us a favour and tell me that they sent more than the crown prince ta take on the nasties of the deep?”

Fíli snorted, “Of course. Should be running into them any time now. I just happened to be closer then they were when the alarm sounded and thought I hadn’t killed any creepers in a few days, so why not. Besides, there’s no faster way to get the guard somewhere then to put a royal in mortal peril.”

“Bless Durin’s mighty nose, that’s a sure relief you did that, lad! Not that I ain’t glad to see ya charming self, but I don’t think our creepy friends wanna play nice anymore.” 

They fled up through one more passageway before bursting out into the large antechamber that was the entrance to the Eastern Mines. Innumerable tunnels and corridors led away from this room, leading off into other sections, to other veins. The place was always full of miners and supplies and all manner of things acting as the central hub for the Eastern Mines of Erebor. It was set up as an impromptu rest station, with food and water aplenty for miners coming on or off their shift. There was even a pub!

It was in complete disarray. Crates were overturned, precious metals scattered over the floor—and almost completely empty of people, which was something Bofur never thought he’d see. It would have made him sad if it were not devoid of all life except for the heavily armed guard that was charging in from the far entrance leading back up to the main areas of the city. 

“Prince Fíli!” One of the guards, the second in command after Dwalin, came barreling over towards them, “Get back Prince Fíli, it is too dangerous down here!” The two dwarves slowed and stood there panting as the massive guard captain glared down at the blond.

“But Skadi,” the prince protested, “it’s the fastest way to bring the guards if the crown prince is in danger,” She cuffed him up the side of the head even as the rest of guard spread out and covered the tunnels, a small number making a protective barrier around Bofur and Fíli, “It still puts you in danger you daft head.”

“Aww, you’ll spoil my fun.”

“Hold!” creepers spilled out of the tunnel they had come from—and much to Bofur’s horror—out of a few others as well. The things squealed and clicked, snapping their pincers at the guards hindering their advance, “The ceiling, watch the ceiling!”

The monsters used their spindly legs to grip on anything and everything, climbing like bulky armoured spiders up the walls and over dwarves, mindless in their advance.

Skadi reached down and with deadly accuracy hurled her throwing axes right in between the gap of a creeper’s armoured shell as it scurried across the ceiling. It dropped in a furry of waving legs and a high-pitched whine, the dwarves making quick work of its downed state. More and more axes and various projectiles shot upwards and across the sides of the cavern, dropping the pale, wriggling creatures down onto the floor to face the main militia.

One loomed suddenly to Bofur’s right and he brought his mattock down on it with a grunt. Fíli fought another with his twin swords, twirling and slicing away at the things.

All in all, it was one of Bofur’s worst shifts he’d had since he’d accepted the post of Head Miner of the Eastern Mines. Maybe it was time to join his cousin as a full-time toy-maker instead of merely carving toys on his off time, never mind the adventure of reclaiming and exploring the grand deep-dark of Erebor? Maybe in a few years.

That is –he mused as he caught a creeper with the edge of his mattock and yanked the shell off part of it’s body—if he lived that long and wasn’t skewered by a glorified creepy-crawler. Or killed by whatever kind of dark magic was going on around the kingdom lately. 

It had been a rough couple of months ever since Thorin had disappeared.

 

Xxx

 

Over the next few days the weather became mild, snow turning wet and mushy and flurries becoming rain-ish and eventually turned to rain itself, pelting down on them and flattening the masses of snow into a thick, soft slush.

“Well, this is a good thing, isn’t it?” Bilbo remarked hopefully as they sloshed along, large piles of drooping snow turning the path into a thick soup (or maybe sludgy-porridge) to trudge through. 

Turns out it wasn’t good at all. 

Late in the night the harsh Northern winds picked up, colder and frostier than ever, and by sunrise everything had completely frozen solid. The only difference now was everything was covered in layer of ice, from snow piles to rocks to the tress they could see in the distance nearing the foot of the mountain range.

And then the snow had started up again, adding a nice fluffy layer on top of all that nice, slick, slippery ice.

Bilbo plunked his foot down through the ice-crusted snow, breaking the brittle layer and plunging down into the soft, sandy snow underneath.

“I take it back. This is absolutely miserable. Not good at _all_ , in any way possible or even remotely imaginable.” Thorin grumbled as best he could (as a wolf) in agreement.

Each step had to be punctuated by the breaking of the ice layer, too brittle to walk on and too hard to comfortably ignore. Coupled with his short legs and unfortunately bare calves, Bilbo could safely say it was an entirely unpleasant experience. Comfortable was something of a long lost memory, as little bits of crusty snow flaked off and scratched at his shins and feet, leaving them sore and irritated. Poor Bungo would have been horrified if he could see the discomfort his son was forced to endure.

Thorin turned back, watching the hobbit trekking determinedly through the snow, scarf flying around, hat uneven, and covered in a thin dusting of flakes. The snow came up to the hobbit’s thighs and just barely brushed at Thorin’s chest. The wolf made a note to begin searching for shelter even though it was still some time before midday when they would make camp. 

He eventually managed to sniff out a little almost-cave, more a group of large boulders that had conveniently fallen against each other, huddled at the side of the mountain face to give just enough space that a few people could take shelter beneath them.

Bilbo had started scraping together what bits of wood and kindling they had to start up a fire. No matter what Thorin had said about him being inexperienced, Bilbo wasn’t at all as bad as the dwarf had made him sound around a fire. His wolf companion had stalked off, no doubt to wait for his body to transform back into a dwarven King in private. The hobbit couldn’t really blame him. The one time he had seen the transformation it had looked awkward and possibly painful. Not to mention the dwarf had been entirely in the bare at the end of it. 

His ears decided to heat up at the memory of that powerful ( _magnificent_ ) body put so on display, and he hastily tried to think of something else. Something less…distracting. _Ahem_. Yes.

His thoughts, however seemed content to hover around the owner of that (ridiculously and unfairly) distracting body and he found himself frowning as he realized he had never really asked the dwarf about his transformations. It could be a delicate subject, he supposed, but still. 

Could Thorin feel them coming? Were they painful? It had certainly looked unpleasant, what with the bones shifting and changing, fur becoming skin, teeth shrinking, spine bending back, hair sprouting and all that.

Should he ask about it? 

Now that was a good question. Surely the poor dwarf was feeling isolated and cast out enough as it was, being forced to leave Erebor and his friends and family. Not knowing who he could trust and who would use the curse as a means to hurt him or his rule. If ever Thorin needed help or even just a friendly ear, it was certainly now. 

Well. Bilbo was more than happy to provide both, he huffed to himself, prodding gently at the fire with a stick. He was certainly more than qualified with being a good listener. Before his adventure many of his cousins and relatives would often seek him out for someone to talk to, or at really, but Bilbo hadn’t minded. He had provided steady support for his mother too, when she was dying. Long months those had been, Bilbo trying to provide the same steady presence his father had been to the both of them. And later, on the quest many of the boisterous dwarves (after they had warmed up to the lone hobbit) had found him a comfortable presence and an appreciative audience. 

Thorin himself had often sought out his company during the later stages of their journey. They would talk (or argue and bicker of course), but often they would just sit in silence, watching the stars or smoking their pipes, exchanging the occasional comment. But Bilbo had felt it was so much more than just that. And he rather fancied Thorin had too, if his hesitant smiles and touches that lingered just a bit too long could be any indication.

Whatever sense of ease or companionship they had was brutally ripped apart with the gold sickness. And Bilbo’s following actions of course. 

The hobbit unhappily wriggled his toes, shifting closer to the fire to try and absorb more of its warmth. Things were better now, he told himself. You are an un-banished hobbit, and one that has found himself even hugged at least twice now! Much more than that if he was to count Thorin’s actions as a wolf as well. And the poor thing really was going through something awful, it must be difficult for him too.

Now that he knew his banishment had been revoked…Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure what all he was feeling in the sudden rush of emotion. Relief, definitely relief. Some anger too, and frustration that he had gone on so long without being able to contact his friends, or interact with any dwarves passing through the Shire, something he had desperately wanted to do just to hear word of how thing were. There was excitement at the prospect of seeing his friends again. Maybe even seeing the restored Erebor now that the dragon and corpses had been cleared out (he hoped). But a good part of him just felt numb, and another part was being stubbornly pessimistic and pushing down the odd feelings of hope that had sprung up in his chest uninvited and refusing to budge.

For there was no future for him and Thorin. Not together. At least not the way his heart would paint for him. It was not of ruling by his side that he yearned for, but of lazy mornings and cuddling by the fireside. Holding hands. Exchanging smiles in the hallways when they passed each other. 

Waking up to a large, warm dwarf every morning. Never having to endure another long night lying alone in a cold bed, wondering and regretting and aching for the presence of another.

 _Ha ha._ Very pretty, he told his heart sternly. Just because he feels sorry and perhaps wishes for your friendship does _not_ mean he wishes to marry you, for goodness sakes! He was beginning to sound like a tween with their first crush.

It would never work anyway, he mused glumly. No one in Erebor would want a silly little hobbit to marry a great King. Who ever heard of a hobbit living in a giant kingdom of dwarves? Or living in a kingdom of dwarves and _not_ accidentally upsetting things with cultural misunderstandings or political ties, or causing unrest by looking too happy about visits from the elves?

 

Thorin had rejoined him at some point, and seemed content to stare moodily into the fire, shooting his smaller companion a glare every once in a while for some reason. Bilbo didn’t know. His dwarf could get moody about the oddest of things. 

Not _his_ dwarf, though, Bilbo reminded himself sternly. Thinking it will not make it so.

He scooted again closer to the fire and rubbed at his calves gingerly, the skin on the front of his shins turned a bright red from the constant contact with the flaking ice. Not to mention the cold and snow. 

Hobbits were decidedly not built for such copious amounts of any harsh weather. Particularly not for an overabundance of ice and snow and all of their slushy, frozen cousins and extended families. It was certainly a problem, Bilbo mused. But not his biggest one.

He rubbed at his calves again, wincing at their red soreness. He would see Thorin through this, whatever it all was. He would help his dwarf ( _the_ dwarf, not his!) as best he could. It was the least he could do to try and make up for his actions with the Arkenstone. And in the face of Thorin’s more recent kindness. 

Oh goodness. He had only been in the company of the dwarf for a month and a half or so, and the poor dwarf had already been cried on a couple of times and treated to less than satisfactory levels of hospitality. He had stepped in to defend him, risking his own life at least three times now to protect a little hobbit who had betrayed him, and apologized at least twice to said hobbit. Oh dear. Perhaps he was not as gracious or as pleasant a companion as he had thought of himself, if this was what he put the dwarf who held his affections through.

Unnerved and more than a bit ashamed, the hobbit rubbed his sore feet together, drawing his legs up to his chest to hunch over in a ball of unhappy hobbit.

Thorin stood abruptly and stalked over to their packs, rummaging around for something. “Here,” blinking as something soft was shoved in front of his face, Bilbo looked up at his companion.

“Ah…Thorin?”

“Take these Bilbo and do us both a favour.”

“These—these are socks.”

“Very observant.”

“You gave me socks.” He was grunted at in response. “What would I do with socks?” he asked, bewildered, “Do you need them fixed, have they a hole or—“

“Wear them.”

The hobbit stared at him wide eyed, “I-I beg your pardon?” He managed to stutter.

“I said _wear them_ ,” the dwarf all but growled.

Oh no. _No._ This was not happening. Nope. Not at all, thank you very much. When Thorin made to move towards the petrified hobbit—who was staring at the socks like they were some hulking, starving predator and he was the unfortunate cornered prey--Bilbo scooted back, reacting to the overwhelming need to protect his feet from those wooly terrors.

“N-now half a moment!” he most certainly did _not_ squeak, thank you. “I think we have a misunderstanding. You do know I am a hobbit, correct? A-And perhaps you’ve noticed that hobbits don’t wear any kind of, of, foot contraptions – I mean I understand why it is done in theory, of course, but I am very much a hobbit and do not need nor want any kind of foot-coverer-thing, thank you very kindly but no-thank you just the same.”

But Thorin would not be budged. He took a step closer to the hobbit and said in his most commanding voice used for council meetings and royal decrees, “You _will_ take these socks and you _will_ wear them, hobbit feet or no. I will not stand here and watch as your fine feet turn blue and fall off from frost bite.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened, “N-Now see here, that’s an exaggeration! I do not appreciate you trying to scare me into wearing those things!”

“Master hobbit,” Thorin said firmly, “I have lived in mountain ranges for most of my life, and I know how frostbite works.”

“On dwarves or humans yes, I’m sure, but—“

“You are showing early signs of it.” Bilbo’s stomach did an odd flip of terror that he quickly squashed down, trying to rationalize Thorin’s grim expression as just irritation.

“I-I, what? That’s—“ 

“I do _not_ intended to allow you to damage your feet beyond repair simply because you are being stubborn.”

“You know it is a very grave insult to imply that a hobbit need to wear footwear?” Bilbo said somewhat desperately, panic causing his thoughts to jumble around.

“And how would a hobbit feel to have missing toes?”

“M-missing…ohh,” Thorin softened in concern and moved closer to the hobbit as his face alarmingly drained of all colour “Dear me,” Bilbo said faintly, a hand coming up to clutch weakly at his heart, “I-I think I need to lay down for a moment...”

A few minutes and a cup of sloppily made tea later, a blanket covered Bilbo was glaring glumly down at his wool-covered toes in despair.

“Oh confound these things!” the hobbit turned his sulky gaze on the all too smug looking dwarf before he could make any more pro-footwear remarks, “Yes, yes, it _is_ warmer like this. But ohh, the shame of it all!”

“Do I look like a hobbit to you?”

The curly haired creature scrunched up his nose in confusion, “What kind of a question is that?”

“I can hardly judge you on hobbit customs as I am not one myself,” the dwarf retorted firmly, but gently, “Nor am I taken to gossip. You have no reason to feel shame at breaking a cultural taboo in my presence,” he raised his hand when the smaller being opened his mouth to complain, “Bilbo, all I care for is that your handsome feet are kept protected so you may continue to flaunt them in that fashion of your kind.”

“Yes, but—hang on, handsome?” the hobbit glanced down incredulously at his wool covered toes and then back up at his companion, “My feet are handsome?”

The dwarf suddenly seemed incapable of meeting the hobbit’s eyes, “…They are most…sizable.” 

Bilbo grinned widely and tucked his knees to his chest, “ _Sizable_ , are they?”

“Very sturdy.” Thorin nodded formally, poking at the fire with a stick, “Stout even. Most formidable.”

“Oh don’t stop there, master dwarf, do tell me more about my hobbity feet.” Bilbo wiggled mentioned toes as a part of him preened under the praise from the one he had admired for so long, socks regardless. Perhaps there was something about him that was appealing to the dwarf King after all. Even if it was just his feet.

“Covered in thick curls…it almost makes up for your lack of a beard.”

Bilbo laughed brightly, “Well, I _am_ flattered! So if I could grow a beard I would be the image of dwarven beauty—well, body type aside that is.” Thorin paused, trying to imagine the hobbit with a thick, properly dwarven beard. He blanched, lips curling in distaste and shook his head.

“I don’t think a beard would suit you.”

“Ah, well. There go my hopes of becoming a dwarven heart-throb,” Thorin somehow managed to frown even deeper, the wolf growling in distress at the thought in the back of his mind. He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Thank Mahal.’ 

The thought of large groups of dwarves all drooling at Bilbo and fighting over him was just—no. Just no. He deserved to be treated as more than some exotic beauty. Or squabbled over like some rare jewel. Jewels had no warmth. They were beautiful, but that was all. And Bilbo Baggins was not a jewel. He was a cozy little hobbit who was as sharp and quick-witted as he was kind.

The very idea of nameless dwarves objectifying the hobbit set his teeth on edge. Bilbo needed to be appreciated and cuddled. He should be allowed to make his quick witty remarks and playful smiles, and have copious amounts of tea and books and have as many meals as he desired, whenever he desired them. 

And if any would seek to deny his hobbit of those things that made his (adorable) fuzzy toes wriggle happily, then by Mahal, Thorin would personally have that person removed.

Xxx

The prince burst into the council room, strong and regal even covered in grime and slimy green-grey creeper gore. Fíli would make a fine king one day, Bofur mused as he followed the blond, who strode unerringly towards the table as all eyes were suddenly on them at the interruption.

“There has been another outbreak.” 

A large, heavily armoured dwarf with a massive fiery beard dripping with elaborate jewels and bead slammed the flat end of his axe down on the table “This is preposterous! A downright lie, that’s what this is!” 

“Lord Firebeard, why would I lie about an outbreak?” asked Fíli, with a remarkable amount of patience if anyone were to ask Bofur. No one did though, so the miner settled on glaring at the larger dwarf. 

Vorvik shook his axe at the young prince angrily, “You seek to besmirch our sorcerer’s good name by making wild claims that Tugûthul is not powerful enough to stop the sickness within the mountain!”

“I have said no such thing.” Fíli said calmly, “Only that there has been another outbreak of the creatures, and even as we speak they are being hunted down and terminated by our guard.”

Members of the council were all muttering to each other, while Dís smiled at her son approvingly from her place at the head of the table “Where did this latest outbreak steam from?” She asked, voice rising easily over the mutters of her council members.

“The Eastern Mines. It was safely evacuated and the guards are currently dealing with the last of it.”

“What proof do you have of this claim?” Firebeard shouted. Fíli slammed one of his swords down on the table, pinning a severed piece of a creeper’s leg to the wood in process. The sword stayed there damningly, the leg twitching compulsively even when separated from the body. The prince raised an eyebrow.

 

Vorvik snorted and waved his hand dismissively, “That could have been from weeks ago. There were plenty of parts lying around after they were exterminated the first few times.”

“That is Bofur, head of the Eastern Mines with you, is it not?” Balin spoke up from his position to the right and slightly behind Dis.

Fíli stepped to the side and gestured at the hatted miner, who nodded respectably “indeed, I have brought our honourable Head Miner to testify my claim.” 

A few of the council sent discreet (or what they considered to be so) sneers at the hatted dwarf. Fíli felt his fists clenching in anger at the blatant disrespect. Back in Thror’s day there had been many corrupt members of the council, many who would use the King’s love of gold to their advantage and take power while Thror was distracted. 

Thorin had of course put a stop to that. No one was allowed on the council simply out of wealth or old political ties. Most were appointed by their actions in the years of exile or in their positions within the working society. Thorin had been ruthless in his flushing out of those greedy of gold or power. Having had succumbed to the gold madness himself, such things visibly disgusted his uncle. 

All dwarves of Erebor had suffered from the gold lust, be it directly or through the actions of those in power. Thorin had suffered more than most, and lost so much to the madness. Fíli could see it every time Thorin turned as if expecting someone else to be at his side, or how he haunted the battlements at night. In the way he would sometimes see his uncle cradling a scrap of silken fabric, once very fine but now quite worn with travel and wear. 

A little yellow silken scarf, meant to be worn with a nice waistcoat and perhaps a bright red jacket to go with it.

Bofur startled Fíli out of his thoughts, “Aye me lords. I can testify alright. Ask me or any of mine, those creepers just came out of the walls, at least a hundred of ‘em. All wriggling and clickin’ in that lovely way o’ theres. If it weren’t for prince Fíli they’d probably be fightin’ over who got to eat me parts by now.” 

Bofur smiled cheerfully back at the few looks of disgust he was receiving from the council. Those members were not even of the appointed council. But under Thorin’s withdrawal from his rule and the sorcerer’s grab of power, more and more corrupt members were somehow being given seats. Much to Dís and Balin’s endless frustration.

 

“Lord Firebeard,” Dis’ voice was clear and stern, and commanded all attention on her person, “you have now heard of this attack from both Crown Prince Fíli and Bofur Head of the Eastern Mines. My son was thoughtful enough to even bring you physical evidence of our invaders, “ she nodded towards the limb still twitching on the table, “ If you are still not convinced perhaps we should have someone drag up a live creeper and have our Lord Firebeard decide if it is real or merely a fabrication of my son’s design?”

 

When Firebeard started to argue, Dís cut him off “In any case, you should not have so blatently accused Prince Fíli in the first place. Do you call the Crown Prince a liar, Lord Firebeard?” his mouth clicked shut and Dís smiled slowly, like a cat watching a cornered mouse, “Are you challenging the word of the King’s chosen heir, and the line of Durin itself?”

Of course Vorvik Firebeard challenged the current rule of Erebor. And fancied himself on the throne. That much was obvious. But the time was not right for him to so boldly declare his intensions. Not yet. Firebeard still had a ways to go before he had enough support to openly challenge the line of Durin from within Erebor itself.

“My Lords,” Bofur felt himself shiver at the sound of that voice, creepy and muffled. Oh sure, it was silky smooth and he guessed it had a nice flow to it. But it had about as much appeal to it as did a piece of rotten meat that someone had painted over to hide the decay, “let us not fight over this. We must believe Prince Fíli’s account of these creatures.”

Firebeard frowned and looked worriedly towards the sorcerer, “But Tugûthul—“

“No, my Lord Firebeard.” The sorcerer raised his hands complacently in a wide, sweeping gesture, “Not even I cannot undo all evil at work here. The evil is more deeply seated than it appeared. The mountain is still disturbed, as she is still birthing her displeasure. I will do what I can to stop these monsters, but unless the mountain is placated they will only continue to re-spawn.”

“Thank you for your valued and honoured opinion, oh great sorcerer with unimaginable power,” drawled Dís from her seat at the head of the table, eyes dangerous, “I am sure we can all think of a few things the mountain is displeased with. It gladdens my heart that we have such a wise and powerful aid in these dark times, and that your power truly is as boundless as you first claimed it to be.”

The man rose to his feet and bowed deeply to the dwarven Princess, hand over his heart (if he actually had one, that is), “I am honoured to serve thee and thy line, fair princess. My powers are at your command.”

Fili watched as his mother’s eyebrow raised to a threatening height, “I am sure they are, dear sorcerer.”

Bofur suppressed a shudder. How had things gone so wrong so fast? Everything was just off around here. The floppy hatted dwarf caught himself glaring at the man’s hair. It was wrong too. Dark reddish-brown (truly red, not orange) curls covered the man’s head artfully, stopping at his chin where it merged into a long beard, a rival to any dwarf’s. But it was the curls that particularly bothered Bofur. Streaked through with black, it just looked wrong on that twisted man.

Maybe it was because he was simply used to a lighter head of curls attached to a much smaller, lither little creature. With pointy ears and bright hazel eyes and that cute bunny-like nose which scrunched up in irritation. 

For perhaps the first time in two years, Bofur was actually glad his hobbit friend was so far away. At least Bilbo would be safe from this cursed sorcerer, tucked leagues and leagues away from all this madness in his friendly little Shire. 

Xxx

 

The hobbit woke from his sleep sometime in the late evening, “Oh no,” he mumbled blearily when he rolled over and saw Thorin hunching over something, “are those what I think they are?” 

The dwarf looked up to frown at the hobbit lump of blankets and furs, “If I am not interrupted, they will be.” He went back to his work, stitching the soft pieces of leather tightly together, “And of course it depends on if you think these are boots. Which they are.”

“Please tell me you are making those things because yours are wearing out?”

“Nonsense. Dwarven boots don’t just wear out. Besides, these are much too soft for a dwarf to wear,” he fought off a smirk as the hobbit groaned into his makeshift pillow, “a hobbit on the other hand, would suit them fine.”

“No. No thank you,” came the muffled reply from under the blankets, “We don’t want any boots or footwear here. Not today, not _ever_. Kindly close the gate on your way out.”

“You can’t truly expect to walk around in just your socks? They’ll get soaked and freeze you just the same.”

“Please don’t remind me of those things. I’m was so hoping that when I woke up it would have all just been some uncomfortable dream and I’d find my feet freed from their unnatural, woolen prison.” Thorin chuckled softly, giving into the smile that settled over his features.

“Half a moment,” the covers were yanked down revealing a rumpled and sleep-softened Bilbo, tussled curls sticking up fuzzily on one side of his head. Thorin felt an odd pang in his heart at the sight. “It has to be almost nightfall by now.”

“Indeed. I believe it is around seven-o’clock by your standards. Which is well past nightfall for this time of year.”

“Which means I should be taking over the watch and you should be getting some sleep!” Thorin scowled at the hobbit’s suddenly bright, cheerful smile in contrast to his previous half-awake grumblings, “We can’t have our dwarf King staying up late and loosing sleep just to make a silly hobbit some boots now, can we? You’ll just have to put aside your craftwork for now and get some rest. It will be midnight before you know it and—“

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I am going to finish these boots for you now, Bilbo Baggins, I will not have you be without them for when we set off. Don’t argue with me on this,” the dwarf said, cutting off the hobbit before he could even begin to voice his complain, “You need them if you wish to protect your feet.”

“Don’t I get any say in this?”

“It depends on what you say. For example, if you were to agree with me, then yes, you do get a say.”

“ _Well,_ ” Bilbo huffed, “You don’t have to be so rude about it. But really, Thorin, you should get some sleep. Let me keep watch until midnight. Out of the two of us you are the most capable and useful in this weather, we can’t have you falling asleep on everything.”

“Once a dwarf has started crafting a work, they can do little else,” the dwarf replied evenly, “Were I to retire surely I would lie awake restlessly thinking of these unfinished boots, and the cold feet they are meant to cover.”

“You are impossible, you know that?”

“I believe I may have been informed of this earlier. By someone of the name of…” he frowned in mock concentration, “ _Baggins_ , if I can recall.”

Bilbo sniffed haughtily, straightening his bedroll in over exaggerated fussiness, “Bagginses are always respectable—adventures notwithstanding that is. You can trust that one knew what they were talking about.”

“Is that so?” the dwarf asked, fighting to keep the laughter from his voice. 

“Oh yes, very much so.” Bilbo nodded primly, “I’m afraid you will simply have to bare being impossible, my good dwarf.”

“Then I will have to thank this Baggins the next time I see him. It has been most enlightening.”

Bilbo dipped his head in a courtly bow, smiling charmingly up at the dwarf, “His pleasure, I’m sure.”

Thorin felt a smile spreading over his features at his companion’s obviously put upon airs. By Durin, he had missed this! There were few in his Kingdom who dared to challenge the King to his face. Almost none would challenge him at all aside from his family and members of the company. Even then it was nothing like the quick and easy back and forth he had with this particular hobbit. The easy sarcasm and playful bartering.

 

The dwarf had been back at his task only a few minutes when he heard his companion rise and shuffle slowly towards his spot against the wall, stopping about a foot away from him. Thorin glanced up. Bilbo looked nervous, biting his lip and fingers playing in the hem of his coat. Thorin frowned. 

“Umm…may I?” Bilbo gave a half gesture at a spot to Thorin’s left, and the dwarf nodded, unease curling in his gut.

Something within the dwarf’s chest ached that the hobbit still so unsure of his welcome. What had happened to the confident and sassy little being that had so enjoyed teasing and bantering with him not even a half-hour ago?

Aside from when there was danger or they had hugged in apology, Thorin really hadn’t had all that much casual contact with Bilbo. Wolf aside. They could still banter and tease, but there was still this wall between them. Neither was sure of where the boundaries were, or even what the boundaries were. It hurt to know that the hobbit was still hesitant and unsure. But that hesitance was there for a reason, Thorin reminded himself grimly, and was certainly well deserved on his part.

Bilbo settled down a little bit aways from his companion, within arm’ reach but not touching. He fidgeted for a while, and then after a few moments sighed quietly, “I didn’t know you could sew.”

“It is not my craft,” Thorin responded, keeping his voice soft, “but it is something I am familiar with through many decades of exile and harsh times.” Bilbo hummed in response.

“I believe I have been unfair to you,” the hobbit started slowly, eyes fixed on his socks “I truly do not know much of anything about traveling in the winter, or about frost bite or, or any of that. It was wrong of me to protest when you’ve been doing more than you should to help me. Not to mention it was also downright ungrateful of me to scorn your efforts. I…would like to apologize, if I may, and perhaps explain a little?” Bilbo shyly peaked up at his companion, trying to gauge the dwarf’s mood.

The look on the dwarf’s face was downright thunderous when he put down his work and fully faced his smaller companion, but what that look meant, Bilbo was afraid to guess. 

“You do not owe me an apology.”

The hobbit bit his lip, “Please, just, hear me out?” Thorin repressed a sigh and nodded.

“There really is no excuse for such ungratefulness. My parents would have been horrified I have no doubt. It’s just that implying a hobbit has soft or fragile feet is a very grave insult,” he glanced up at his larger companion from the corner of his eye, “It would be as if someone had taken slight at your beard.”

He tucked his knees up to his chest, back against the rock wall, “And I suppose it is a bit of a…touchy subject for me. Hobbit hair is very resilient, but even it’s no match for dragon fire,” he smiled ruefully, “It took ages for the hair on my feet to grow back at all, after Smaug, and even now it’s thinner and a bit patchier than is normal for a hobbit.”

The dwarf carefully nudged his boot against the smaller male’s socked foot, moving a bit closer to his companion in what he hoped would be taken as offered support. Bilbo seemed to see it as such and sighed softly before continuing. 

“I guess as well, everyone back in Hobbiton is always going on about how outlandish and unrespectable I am. The lack of proper foot hair just makes me even more of an outsider. So I…well, in some ways I guess I’m glad I don’t have to look at my patchy hair and the burns on my feet right now. But seeing my feet covered just makes it even more obvious that there’s something wrong, so…”

He startled at bit as a large, warm hand settled carefully on his shoulder. Bilbo hesitated a moment, emotions warring, before he scooted over to the dwarf’s side. Immediately he was tucked firmly against the dwarf, held in place by a strong arm that had curled protectively around him. He leaned gratefully against the warm furs, breathing in the comforting Thorin smell of smoke and an undercurrent of wolf hair.

“I wouldn’t have you wear anything on your feet unless it was necessary, Bilbo.” Thorin said lowly, “I do not wish you discomfort.”

Bilbo shook his head, “No, no, of course not. I know that, Thorin. I’m sorry.” He sighed again, “just being a silly hobbit, I’m afraid. Fretting about useless little things, making a fuss.”

“ _No_.” Thorin all but growled, “No,” he said again, softer, “it is not silly to mourn over the loss or abuse of culture. Especially when one is far from home or from any other that would understand. Sometimes it is all one has to keep them going.

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo said softly after a while, “it must have been terrible for you. After Smaug came.”

Thorin hummed noncommittally, “It is hardly your fault. You do not have to apologize.”

“Still. I guess I feel silly complaining over these socks in the face of all that.”

“It is still the same principle. Besides, my people were forced out of their home and exiled. You, however, are here by your own free will. There is some difference in situation.”

“Oh, well…” the hobbit didn’t really know what to say to that. “It’s not so bad as all that,” he settled for after floundering for a few moments, “Besides, I’ve got a dwarf to make sure I don’t freeze to death or get eaten by wargs. It’s hardly akin to an exile when I’m out here with a friend.” 

He felt Thorin stiffen against his side. Oh no, had he gone too far? Was the dwarf uncomfortable with being considered a friend? Those thoughts tumbled out the window and into a hole under the sill when the arm around his shoulder tightened and drew him just a bit closer. Bilbo smiled and fought the urge to rest his head on the dwarf’s shoulder. He lost and tentatively did so, nuzzling in a bit when he felt a large, calloused hand rub his arm gently.

“You’re worth it, you know.” Thorin sucked in a breath sharply, staring down at his small companion incredulously, “All of this trouble,” Bilbo yawned sleepily, oblivious to the dwarf, and murmured, “I’ve no regrets about being here…”

The hobbit’s eyes drooped. It wasn’t exactly his nice, feather mattress or downy pillows. But somehow, snuggled into Thorin’s side, he felt warmer and more at home than he ever felt in his own little bed.

After the little creature had begun to snore softly Thorin had sat there in stunned silence, touched beyond words and panicking internally at the rush of emotions warring through him. 

When he could stand to, he carefully retracted his arm back from around the hobbit to continue working on the boots. He found himself unable to nudge Bilbo awake or even to carry him over to his bedroll. Instead he drew his coat over the little thing and tucked him against his side as gently as possible. The hobbit only made soft, sleepy noises, nuzzling back into the dwarf’s side when he was settled and sighing contentedly, causing Thorin to turn a truly magnificent shade of red and his heart to flare with a fierce desire to protect. 

The warm, cozy presence at the dwarf’s side kept him company well into the night, long after he had finished his work.

xxx

Within a week they had reached the first of the two rivers they were to cross. They left the mountain path behind and veered over to the east, still keeping close enough to the rocky and rugged terrain at the foot of the mountain range, but far away enough to have wide, open plains before them.

They crossed the first river fairly easily. It had completely frozen over so they simply walked over the ice, something which Bilbo decided was only slightly more comfortable than being in the water. Their escapade back on Long Lake had left a definite imprint on the hobbit. Never one to be overly fond of large amounts of water (not being able to swim will do that to a person) being swept down a raging river, with rapids and barrels and elves and orcs and all—and nearly drowning on various occasions—had simply not helped. Not in the slightest.

So it was with much trepidation and quite a lot of whining and nudging and tugging on clothes from his wolf companion that the hobbit hastily made his way across. Thorin being there, firm and warm under his arm had been a great help. He made sure the hobbit did not slow down, nor stop until they were both safely on the other side.

“And you say there’s another river we have to cross?” Bilbo asked somewhat breathlessly, worrying his scarf. Thorin barked and nudged his head into the hobbit’s chest, “Oh _good_ ,” Bilbo said sarcastically, scratching the wolf under his jaw and causing Thorin’s tongue to loll out in bliss “I was beginning to worry things would be too dull or less fraught with danger and all. At least I know there’s still the chance of drowning. Thank the Green Lady for that!” 

Bilbo flailed when Thorin stretched up to lick at his cheek, the wolf yipping happily when it caused the pout on the hobbit’s face to go away. He was swatted at and scolded, but that just made the wolf wag his tail happily. And do it again of course. 

The second river they wouldn’t even have known they had crossed if Bilbo hadn’t slipped on its frozen surface. So much snow had piled up that it was completely indistinguishable from the rest of the landscape. Bilbo had been trudging through the waist high snow, maneuvering around a particularly large rocky-lump thing that was buried somewhere under the snow, when he once again found himself airborne.

Yelping as he suddenly had a face-full of snow, the hobbit huffed and grumbled, pulling himself up. His soft leather boot slipped again, causing him to loose his balance and once again, say hello to the snow smooshing cheerfully at his face.

“I don’t like this very much,” he grumbled as Thorin came loping over, whining in concern and crowding the hobbit’s space, “No no, I’m alright. But I think that…” Bilbo scooted around from his undignified sprawl on the ground, Thorin plopping down beside him.

“A-ha!” The hobbit triumphantly pushed the snow away from the area he had slipped on, revealing a large patch of ice underneath, “That’s why I kept slipping,” he frowned suddenly, pushing aside more snow and reveling yet more dark ice, “Strange…this is—the river!”

The wolf peered down at the ice glaring balefully, pressing his head against the clearing to feel the moving water deep underneath.

“Goodness me. Thorin, can we please, please get off this ice? I don’t want to find out how thick this is—or isn’t. At least the last one we could see where it was and where I started and ended. But this...” Instantly, there was a large, furry body pressed against his body and under his arm. Thorin pulled the little creature along with him, remembering all too well Bilbo’s shaky confession in Laketown that he could not swim—something he had only cared to tell them after their daring barrel escape from the elven King. 

Careful as to not slip on any more ice, Thorin hastened to where he assumed the other side was, only slowing down after nearly ten minutes of near running. He stopped to dive and burrow into the snow, finding the ground to be frozen earth, thankfully not water. Bilbo heaved a sigh of relief and sagged against his furry companion.

“Oh, thank the Earth Mother for that.”

And things went much smoother after that. For just over two weeks the most trouble the two companions encountered was moving through the increasingly large amounts of snow, avoiding storms and finding places to take shelter. 

On Bilbo’s part there was the added trouble of adapting to wearing any kind of covering on his feet, namely the socks and soft leather boots Thorin had supplied him with. They did help with the cold, Bilbo mused, but they had an awful habit of getting snow stuffed down and inside them, making his poor feet all wet and soggy while trapped inside their leathery confines. Not to mention the mess it all made of his foot hair! But the less said about that, the better, thank you.

Walking even without the snow was an odd experience wearing the boots. He could only hope that Thorin would know better than to tell anyone of his first attempts to move with the ridiculous things, where he took one step and fell flat on his face at the odd weight distribution. It was disconcerting! Not being able to feel out the earth or grip with his toes, his whole foot felt like one large, clumsy, appendage he could only move up or down or to the sides. Maybe that’s why the big folk (and dwarves) could be so grumpy and serious all the time, as they wore those blasted contraptions near constantly. He shuddered at the thought. Yes, that certainly explained a lot.

The hobbit was finding it harder and harder to convince his companion that he was still perfectly capable of walking and did not, in fact, need to be carried around on the wolf’s back the whole time. It was an unnecessary waste of energy, Thorin would argue when they stopped to make camp (when he could argue with words instead of growls and whines and big, soulful puppy eyes that Bilbo would never admit to being completely powerless against) and it made no sense for the smaller creature to be struggling on when Thorin could easily bare his weight and more besides. 

Of course Bilbo had in turn gone on about the distractions of having a passenger, and how the larger and more dangerous of the two needed to be fully functional in the case of an attack. Thorin retorted that he would be much less distracted without feeling inclined to check behind him every few minutes to make sure he had not lost his smaller companion to a snowdrift, and had been unable to hear it because the hobbit was so deeply buried under the snow his cries of distress were completely muffled. 

After crossing the Rushdown they kept their distance from the mountainside. Although the rockier terrain would make finding a suitable shelter from the cold and wind much easier than if they were to travel exposed across the great plains, Thorin was wary. The further North they got, the further into Gundabad and orc and goblin territory they were. These mountains were dangerous. Mahal only knew how many hidden ‘doorways’ there were scattered throughout them, or just how many eyes watched from the cracks and fissures of the rock.

So they kept their distance. Finding shelter became more difficult as trees and rocks and natural inclines in the landscape had to replace caves or a solid wall or rock for camp sites. Thorin was constantly on the look out for wargs, all too aware of their vulnerability. They only needed to follow the Misty Mountains North until they came across the River Langwell. They could do this easily enough, the mountains still being a ragged, jagged presence to their left, the Grey Mountains beginning to appear as a wide blot on the Northern horizon. Once they hit the Langwell they would follow the river West directly to Tugûthul’s Fortress.

So there was nothing to worry about, Bilbo thought to himself. Just a mad sorcerer. And an impenetrable Fortress. With possibly an army inside and a supposedly not-indestructible artifact of great power to destroy. _Wonderful._

It was just after midnight. The sky was strikingly clear with a bright, nearly full moon illuminating their way. There were more stars than Bilbo could ever recall seeing before in his life. It was breathtakingly beautiful, though bitter cold. The deep, inky-blue stretched on and on in every direction with clouds of stars running across it in whips and steams of light. 

As Bilbo’s frosted breath puffed out in front of him he was struck with a sense of such terrible vastness all around him. It was silent. So very silent. All he could hear was his own breathing and that of his companion, and the padded crunch of their passing, rhythmic and muffled, swallowed up by the great white landscape all around.

_Crunch_

_Crunch_

_Crunch_

Tears formed in his eyes and the greatness of it all. Despite being the shortest race on Arda, never before had Bilbo even felt so keenly aware of his own smallness. Everything was swallowed up under the great, terrible dome of the sky.

He drew his scarf closer around him, eyes blurring with cold and wonder as he tried to refocus on making his way through the snow. Thorin stopped suddenly, body tensing, and the hobbit cautiously walked to his side, heart plunging to his toes at the wolf’s posture.

“Thorin? What’s wrong?” A sense of unease fell over the hobbit as he watched the wolf’s nostrils flare and his eyes narrowed down to thin slits of ice-fire. He lifted his muzzle up into the chill of the night sky, head twisting around trying to pinpoint a scent. His shoulders hunched, hair sticking up and ears flicking forwards as he lowered his head, eyes slightly glazed over and _growled._

“Thorin…”

Howls echoed across the clear, piercing sky, and Bilbo wildly spun in terror. All he could see was the blur of the distant stars and the light of the moon on the snow.

 

Thorin nudged the hobbit with his head, barking and growling, trying to get the little thing to get on his back. Bilbo clamored on, straddling the wolf’s back and gripping tight as Thorin immediately took off, darting across the snowy plains.

Straining his ears, Bilbo desperately listened for the sound of pursuit. Maybe the wargs were just passing through and didn’t have anything to do with cursed dwarves or sorcerers. _Please, please, let them pass us by!_

The hobbit had just began to think that maybe they had been unnoticed when a renewed burst of howls sprung up even closer than before. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to concentrate only on the steady rise and fall of the wolf beneath him, the rush of the wind, the sound of the snow blowing across the ground like sand. Anything but their pursuers.

Bile rose in the hobbit’s throat as he realized they were surrounded, snarls and howls erupting throughout the cold night sky all around them. The snow stretched on and on, endless and unchanging, a blur of white in contrast to the dark blue of the sky above. The hobbit felt so bare, so terribly exposed, the haunting and terrible howls of the hunt echoing from everywhere and nowhere at once. 

Increasing his pace, Thorin sped over the snow, paws flying deftly across the frozen landscape. He would make for the Langwell. The sharp, jagged peaks of the Grey Mountains were just beginning to form into a substantial shape, telling him they were close.

But it was no good. Within minutes Bilbo could make out the dark, blurry forms of wargs all around them, in front, behind, coming in from both sides. They were closing in. The shapes in front suddenly veered inwards, turning their bodies so they were facing the wolf and his passenger, loping steadily towards them. The other wargs mirrored their movements, neatly forming a ever closing circle around the pair.

Thorin snarled and slowed his pace, coming to a stop. They would hold their ground and fight. Running was not an option. He sent a quick thanks to Mahal that at least these wargs were without riders.

Ripping off his mittens Bilbo fumbled for his sword, fingers numb and sloppy from the cold. Drawing Sting the hobbit twisted around, vainly trying to count the creatures surrounding them. At least five, maybe six. He gulped, clenching his free hand into Thorin’s soft fur beneath him.

Then all chaos broke loose. Thorin had howled and snarled, and Bilbo knew he had yelled something if the sting in the back of his throat was any indication. It was all a bit of a blur, really.

He lashed out with his blade when Thorin pounced, and twisted around to cover his wolf’s sides. Thorin had taken one out, and was starting on another when something large bowled into Bilbo, toppling him over.

There was snow under his back and side. Bilbo swiftly rolled onto his front, heart pounding as he grasped at Sting. He swung at a warg who had taken him as easy prey and stumbled up, driving the small blade into its muzzle when it made to lunge. It clawed at him, but the hobbit deftly danced away, pulling his sword back in the process.

This was of course when a snarl to his left alerted him to another warg friend who was evidently set on hobbit for dinner. No thank you! Bilbo thought, ducking and slashing madly, trying to keep both wargs in front of him. I have had quite enough of creatures trying to eat me! Could you kindly _not_ do that?

When a third had taken a daring bite at his arm, missing only due to Bilbo’s frantic turning, the hobbit was more than expecting to end up as a warg-snack. Thorin, apparently, liked the idea as much as Bilbo did.

One moment he was spinning wildly, trying to keep all three circling wargs in his vision, and the next his face was being squashed into the snow. Again.

The truly terrifying snarls coming from above him and the large, white-ish furry body standing defensively over his owned alerted him to his companion’s whereabouts. The large wolf snarled and snapped, eyes flaring hatefully at the three remaining wargs. With his muzzle and claws painted red with blood, he was a truly terrifying sight. He stood over the prone hobbit, eyes glowing eerily in the light of the moon as he dared the wargs to try and hurt his fallen companion.

“Thorin! Let me up—Thorin!” The wolf was having none of it. The wargs had begun to attack, moving in quickly and then darting away, hoping to tire and confuse the wolf through constant movement. One landed a lucky strike to Thorin’s side, causing the wolf to give a sharp yip of pain. 

And that was enough for Bilbo.

He squirmed out from under the fluffy creature, dodging around his back leg quickly and gaining his feet. Immediately he caught the attention of one of the awful beasts. It swung its fanged muzzle around and lunged with a snarl, only being stopped at the last minute by Sting slashing against the side of it’s head. Whining in pain it jumped back, snarling hungrily at the little hobbit with wild, vicious eyes. It leapt, claws flashing, fangs bared—

And found itself impaled on an elven blade.

Bilbo had ducked, using the warg’s momentum against it. And found himself crushed under the thing. Having had more than enough of being squashed by large, fanged creatures, the hobbit pushed at the thing, trying to dislodge its heavy weight.

A dreadful howl rent the air, and Bilbo felt his heart still. That was no warg.

Kicking and wriggling desperately, he managed to dislodge himself from under the hateful creature, panting and cursing—and felt his heart all but stop at the sight that greeted him.

Thorin was thrashing around, snarling and howling, trying to dislodge the one remaining warg—that had its mouth firmly clamped around the wolf’s shoulder. With an indescribable cry of rage the hobbit charged, launching himself at the monster and stabbing it again and again and again until it finally stilled.

Thorin was panting, flank rising and falling all to quickly. He whined softly as Bilbo did his best to be gentled as he pried the dead warg’s teeth out of his shoulder. 

“There, there, let’s get that awful thing off of you.” He collapsed to his knees to be level with the wound. “Oh dear me. They’ve gone and made an awful mess of your fine coat,” he murmured absently, heart still pounding in his ears as he stroked Thorin’s matted fur, carefully avoiding the deep gouge marks, “but don’t you worry. We’ll get you nice and clean soon enough. You’ll see.”

The wolf whined and brought his great head around to lay flat against Bilbo’s chest so he was looking straight up at the hobbit. His eyes closed as he felt small hands come up and hug him carefully and closely, his companion lowering his own head to rest atop of the wolf’s. He licked the soft cheek gently, feeling the small creature give a startled laugh and hold him closer.

This was nice. The wolf was all but purring, being held so tenderly by that kind little creature. He would have liked to properly cuddle the thing, wrap around (and partially on top of) him. But he was too tired. Maybe when he woke up, Thorin thought muzzily as he snuggled closer. 

He happily breathed in his hobbit’s scent, content to simply be held in his embrace and feel the strong and steady heartbeat from his chest.

_His little hobbit…_

Thorin had passed into blissful unconsciousness, completely unaware of his little hobbit having an all out panic attack and trying again and again to rouse him. 

Faced with no other choice, Bilbo determined that they would have to start moving. And they would have to do so soon. It was not wise to remain amongst corpses.

But how to do it? Brushing aside a tear, Bilbo looked around, forcing himself to concentrate on anything besides the large furry head cradled in his lap. His fingers stroked the fur gently as he thought.

How does one move something much, much larger than itself? He did not have a wheelbarrow. Nor a carriage, nor an army of hobbits or dwarves to help him move it. No helpful animals. The dead wargs were discounted (for obvious reasons) and the only truly helpful creature was currently bleeding out and—

_No!_

He slammed his eyes shut and sucked in a quick breath.

_Focus. Thorin needs you._

Right. He opened his eyes. Perhaps he could construct some kind of a stretcher. Though he doubted he could carry it. Unless—

His head snapped around. The snow. Of course, the snow!

A few minutes later found the wolf tenderly wrapped in a blanket and placed on top of another blanket. The second, however, was being held by Bilbo, and tugged along behind him as he walked.

Even though he was essentially dragging his wolf and their pack behind him, the snow cushioned the movement, making a hopefully smooth passing over the earth. Bilbo struggled on, fighting against the weight and keeping his fingers firmly clenched around the blanket’s edge.

It was heavy alright. He could already feel his back protesting and his fingers cramping. But Thorin had carried him many a time. Now it was Bilbo’s turn to return the favour.

He walked.

And walked. 

And walked.

The wind whistled on, sneaking under his scarf and hat and darting up his hobbit-style trousers that his boots just barely reached. His fingers had long gone numb under the strain of keeping hold of the blanket and dragging the full force of his injured companion. If anything, he supposed he should be grateful the snow was not as deep and he could move Thorin across the ground instead of through it. Perhaps there was a deep enough layer of frozen snow and he was trekking across the loose, powdery stuff on top.

Slowly the sky began to lighten, clouds moving in to be painted in the soft tones of the morning light.

Bilbo gasped and bent his head to awkwardly wipe his brow on his shoulder, unwilling to release his hold on his cargo for even a moment. They needed help. Shelter at least. Somewhere Bilbo could keep Thorin warm and tend to his wounds.

He fought down the sob threatening to rise out of his throat. Crying wouldn’t help anyone. He was all Thorin had right now. A silly, useless little hobbit, too weak to defend himself or save those he held dear. 

He wasn’t enough. He never had been. But for Thorin’s sake, for the awful, stubborn, impossible lump of a dwarf, he had to be.

The mountains crawled closer. It had been folly to venture so far away from the protective terrain of the mountain range. But that had been the trap. They had been purposefully chased out by the wargs, driven and hunted like prey deeper into the plains where they were easy pickings.

Bilbo gasped as he felt movement behind him. He could not see the position of the sun for the clouds, but when he turned back he realized it was midday. Thorin had transformed.

Dropping the blanket he scurried around, hands hovering anxiously around the dwarf’s still unmoving and blanket covered form. He gently shook the uninjured shoulder, calling the dwarf’s name gently. Fighting back a sob at the lack of reply he scrubbed a quick hand against his face and gently lifted the blanket.

At least now he could properly bandage the poor thing. He cleaned and bandaged the wounds as best he could and covered them in some healing salve Elrond had been kind enough to give them. When he was finished he sat back, unwilling to part from his dwarf. Stroking his cheek softly, he startled when he saw the blue eyes staring blearily up at him.

“Thorin!”

His voice was groggy and rough, but it was still that same damnable voice that had so enticed Bilbo all that time ago. “…bo. Bilbo..” 

“Thorin, just hold on. Please just hold on.” Bilbo fluttered around anxiously, patting the dwarf and taking his hand, “It will be alright. Just you see.”

 

“…leave…don’t…save yourself..”

“Are you-are you daft?” Bilbo continued to stroke the dwarf, “Oh sorry, you must just be addled. I’m not leaving you. Don’t you worry, I’ll find us some shelter,”

“No…no.” Thorin shook his head, trying to shoot a glare at the hobbit, “Bilbo…I need you to live…can’t bear the thought of you dying…”

Bilbo laughed hysterically, “How do you think _I_ feel?! Curse you, you noble idiot! I refuse!” he hissed, suddenly furious, “I will _not_ leave you! Not again…you cannot make me!”

“Bilbo,” the dwarf said sternly, trying to hold on to his slipping consciousness, “you must leave me here. There is no sense in us both dying.”

“No Thorin.” Bilbo’s eyes had gone almost hard and he glared down that the injured dwarf, “I left you once. You banished me, ordered me away,” tears pricked at his eyes and he gave an awful laugh, “And I knew it was wrong. Leaving you was the last thing I ever wanted to do. But I did it.And I was alone, for so, so long, in a way I haven't been since my parents died. And I hated myself for it. So no, Thorin. You cannot order me to leave. I will not. Not this time. You are stuck with me if you wish it or not. I will help you, Thorin Oakenshield. And I will save you, even if it costs me my life.”

Thorin let out a strangled sound, and Bilbo felt compelled to join him in it, “That’s right Thorin,” he lent down close to his dwarf, brushing a loose strand of hair out of his eyes, “ I’m not going to save myself. How are you going to yell at me if you’re dead?”

Thorin’s eyes began to droop and panic struck the hobbit that this would be the last time he would ever see Thorin alive. “I will personally go off and live in Rivendell for the rest of my life-or Mirkwood! Mirkwood!” He yelled frantically. It certainly got Thorin’s attention. His eyes jerked open and he seemed to register what Bilbo had said. Anger glinted in his eyes and Bilbo could have wept in relief, “That’s right! I’ll go and live in Mirkwood, home of the greatest ruler Arda has ever been graced with. I’ll swear fealty to Thranduil and be his servant for the rest of my days, making him tea and scones and speaking Sindarin and Quenya and doing his biddings. I’ll be his servant, Thorin! They’ll probably treat me like some kind of pet or oddity. And if you have a problem with that you better hold on and don’t-don’t you dare leave me again, Thorin Oakenshield!”

He could only hope his plan worked. Thorin had still gone under again. But at least he did not look so terrifyingly peaceful when he had done it. He hadn’t looked like a dwarf ready to embrace death. No, he had gone out like a dwarf faced with some great evil that only he could vanquish. And if Bilbo knew him like he hoped he did, Thorin Oakenshield would never let such evil win. Not if he had any strength left in his body to stop it.

In retrospect, he realized he should have brought up the sorcerer. Or Erebor. Or any of Thorin’s family and friends and the vast threat the sorcerer posed to all of them. But at the time he had been foolish and focused on smaller things he knew would bother the dwarf endlessly. He hoped it had been enough to remind the dwarf why he was simply _not allowed_ to die.

 

Lights. He blinked, and blinked again, frantically daring his vision to be true. There they were, lights, many lights, all in the crest of a valley that suddenly opened up below him.

“Oh thank the valar,” Bilbo all but sobbed in relief. It was a settlement of some kind. Of dwarves or men or elves, the hobbit did not care. All he knew was that they needed help, and badly. And there were people over there that could give that to him. That could save the dead weight of a dear, grumpy dwarf he dragged behind him.

Relief threatening to turn his legs to jelly, Bilbo pressed on, ignoring the burn in his muscles and the blurring of his vision, “Hold on Thorin. Please, just a little while longer. It will be alright. I promise.”

Whether Thorin heard him or not, he had no way of knowing. Bilbo struggled on, foot after foot, across the cold, the only witness to his passing being the icy plains and the bitter wind, as he inched closer and closer to the cluster of lights, and hopefully their salvation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No wolves were harmed in the making of this chapter.
> 
> So, I'm going to say I'll try to update as soon as I can to avoid leaving everyone on a cliffy-buuut, well, we all know how reliable I am with that kind of thing. Aha ha! Yes..*haunted eyes*
> 
> So actually, I was meaning to ask. I was considering putting little sneak-peaks of chapters on my tumblr, just, you know, in case there's a ridiculously long time in between updates. What do you guys think? It would just be a few sentences, maybe a short little paragraph. Just enough of a something to give you a something. 
> 
> You can leave a little message if you feel strongly about this. Or ignore it, if you don't. I just want to know if anyone really thinks this is a good idea, as I'm a bit on the fence with it myself. l kind of feel I'll just be spamming my tumblr with it, but tell me if you have an opinion on it.


	16. Eyes of Fire, Eyes of Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's not dead?
> 
> Thank you everyone who left kudos and reviews! I'm sorry I haven't responded to the reviews yet, even though it's been well over a month. I love them all, and squeel and obsess over them like you wouldn't beleive-but unfortunatley I've always had social anxiety. And apparently that carrys over to the internet and responding to comments even. *sigh*
> 
> Anyway, enjoy the chapter!
> 
>  **Warnings** for brief suggestion of unrealized non-con, and PTSD.

The dwarf came back to himself slowly. Biting back a groan at the heaviness of his limbs he blearily opened his eyes. Old, wooden panels greeted him from the ceiling. He blinked up at them slowly.

He felt as if he had recently experienced pain from the odd numbness in his shoulder and side when he moved slightly. Turning his head he found himself to be in a dimly lit room, sparsely decorated from what he could see. A window with dirty, cloudy glass peeked out from behind an unattractive curtain and across the room a small fireplace was burning cheerfully, blackened with soot. A poorly crafted candleholder sat on a stool beside the bed, which he was laying in. He felt his brow furrow.

What had happened?

He brought a hand up to rub at his face, wincing at the pull in his side when he did so. Grimacing slightly, he sat up and rubbed gently at his bandaged shoulder.

Then he remembered.

Stumbling out of bed, the memories crashed into him. The wargs, the snow stretching on endlessly, the hobbit clinging to his back, the howling—they had been attacked, chased out far into the open fields and cornered. He had fought them, fangs bared and claws viciously slashing out-but they had surrounded Bilbo. And then—Thorin had blacked out.

Ignoring the lingering pain from his wounds he hastily struggled into his clothes, which were neatly folded and mended and sitting on a chest at the foot of the bed. His axes were strapped on along with the long knife Dwalin had gifted him with when they left Rivendell.

Something bright caught his eye when he grabbed his cloak. Laying under it was a familiar scarf and mittens, cheerfully embroidered and all but screaming hobbit craftsmanship.

The relief that slammed into him was short lived. Bilbo’s outer wear and pack may have been a welcome sight, but the distinct lack of the hobbit himself did little to settle his apprehension.

Where was Bilbo? Last he could remember seeing the stubborn little hobbit was when he was struggling to haul Thorin’s injured form across the snow. Hadn’t that been a sight. Drifting in and out of consciousness as he had been, the dwarf could not be entirely too sure what all had transpired. He knew they had exchanged words at some point. He could distinctly remember telling the hobbit to leave his far too heavy self and seek shelter, being lucid enough to fear for the smaller being stranded out in the snow. Frustration too, he could recall. Bilbo had been most vocal about what he though of that idea. 

Then he started to go on about…Thranduil? Which was never a good sign, and he could recall a distinct feeling of discomfort and an urgency to fight back to consciousness to stop something awful from happening.

Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it he strode over to the window, trying to gauge the time. It was dark outside. Craning his neck to see more of the sky did little to help in his endeavor. In winter months the night came on swiftly and stretched on long into the morning. This far north it was often unnaturally dark for even longer and stranger periods of time than it was elsewhere. Mahal only knew how late it was. For all he knew it was only a few minutes until midnight, and he’d find himself in his wolfish form, stuck in some unknown building and with no stubborn hobbit in sight. 

With that unpleasant thought, he pushed open the door and glanced furtively down the length of the hallway. Moving as stealthily as his iron tipped boots would allow, he made his way to the end, pausing as he heard voices. His stomach growled loudly as he was assaulted by the sudden smell of food, but he ignored it. There more pressing matters to attend to.

The room he stepped into was large and full of tables and chairs, brimming with people. An inn, he decided. Humans and even a few dwarves were scattered throughout, and a man and woman bustled about wearing aprons and carrying tankards of ale and food, serving those seated. There was a bar near the back, but it was too crowded to make out clearly from where he was standing.

It was reminiscent of _The Prancing Pony_ in Bree, yet it lacked the comforts of having properly sized accommodations. This inn was a good deal darker and dingier, the crowd had a rougher, sharper feel than _The Pony_ , even with Bree being a known gathering place of ruffians and rangers alike.

Drawing his cloak up around him, he walked across the room slowly, eyes searching for a small head of golden curls amongst the taller folk. Becoming anxious after a few minutes of fruitless searching, he stubbornly fought down the rising fear in his gut. Perhaps Bilbo had simply stepped out for a moment, wishing to take a break from the hustle and bustle of so many big folk all around. Though he did not much like the idea of a hobbit walking around alone in some unknown human settlement in the middle of nowhere.

Thorin briefly considered approaching the few dwarves he spotted to ask if they had seen a hobbit, but quickly thought against it. More at ease he may have been with speaking to his own kind, but he would not risk being recognized. Not only would it contradict the word of the royal family that he had taken ill and was confined to his chambers, he also did not like to dwell on what would happen should this questionable crowd realize the King of the wealthiest Kingdom in Arda was in some isolated settlement without any kind of guard, aside from a hobbit if that could be counted, fierce though he may be.

“He’s an odd little thing, isn’t he?”

“Aye, never seen one of those before.” Thorn’s ear twitched as voices from near the bar reached him. “Wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more, if you know what I mean.” His hand closed firmly around his axe at the coarse laughter that followed. He could not be sure of who they spoke of, no matter how his heart began to speed up at the thought of his companion. Teeth clenched he made his way closer to the voices, spotting the group of men seated around a table.

“Didn’t think those things were real. I mean halflings are old folk tales and all.” 

Bilbo. His nostrils flared but he forced himself to calm. Finding the hobbit was his first priority. If he found him, he could make sure he was safe. Even if it meant listening in on conversations he would rather end. With his blade. Violently.

“Aye, what are the chances of spotting one here in our own _Rusty Axe Inn?_ ”

“Thought their feet were supposed to be big and hairy, but he’s wearing boots.”

“Naw, his boots are his feet, see.”

“That’s the daftest thing you’ve ever said, Ulrich. Bet he’s wearing those boot cause he’s scared of your ugly mug.”

“Maybe he’s shy, never seen a real man before wherever he’s from.”

“Might be your only chance lads, to get a good look at him.”

“Pardon me,” the familiar voice was the only thing that halted Thorin’s murderous advance on the unaware men. A small, curly head emerged a little ways off in the crowd, squeezing out from around the larger bodies clustered at the bar, and carrying two large, steaming bowls. 

Thank the Maker. 

From what he could see Bilbo looked unharmed. Though there was a paleness to his cheeks and a distinct uneasiness in the way his shoulders hunched as if to make himself as small as possible. His feet were already carrying him over to his companion.

“Oi, where are you off to in such a rush, halfling? Sit with us!” That was it, that was all he could take. To hear them speak about his hobbit was bad enough, but to see one of the men shamelessly leer down at him was too much. Bilbo had his back to Thorin, so he could not see his advancing dwarven companion reach for his axe.

“I-I’m sorry, but I really can’t.” Though polite, Bilbo’s voice was more than a bit strained, “I’ve only stepped out to take some food back for my friend,” he gestured to the bowls he was holding, edging away from the table a bit as he did, “and I can’t have it going cold.”

“Oh I insist.” The man reached out to grab at the hobbit, and startled as his arm was stopped by the flat end of an axe.

“I would think twice about touching him, if you wish to keep your hands.”

“Thrâk!” Bilbo cried, turning to Thorin. Ignoring the odd exclamation from his hobbit, Thorin firmly placed himself in front of the men and swept Bilbo behind him, blocking him from the men's view.

“Is there a problem?” The men eyed his shorter yet heavily built frame warily, taking in his axes and frighteningly dark expression. Dwarves were well known for their unequaled strength and their charges that were akin to a landslide, unstoppable and devastating. There was a gentle nudge to his back.

“I was just getting us some dinner,” Bilbo said quickly, stepping around to the dwarf’s side, “Why don’t we head back to our room?”

The slight panic in his voice set Thorin’s teeth on edge, and he had to suppress the sudden violent urge to let his axes sing.

“You will stay away from him, and no one has to loose anything.”

He looked each man in the eye in turn, making sure he was understood. “Evening.” He said curtly, eyes dark and dangerous.

Keeping a hand on the small shoulder he led Bilbo away from the crowd and back to their room, the dwarf’s knuckles white around the hilt of his axe. Thorin opened the door for his companion, and as soon as the smaller being was inside he locked and bolted it for good measure. Turning he suddenly found himself with an armful of hobbit.

“Oh Thorin, I’m so glad you’re awake!” Bilbo was shaking slightly, so he reached out and placed his hands on the small shoulders. “It’s so good to see you on your feet again. You scared the life out of me collapsing like that! I’ll thank you not to do it again.”

When Thorin’s face remained in a steady glower, Bilbo rushed to reassure him “don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone who you were or what we’re doing out here. We’re just unlucky travelers visiting your kin that got a bit turned around. Also, I’ve been telling everyone your name is Thrâk, I hope you don’t mind. And, ah, I hope it is a dwarvish name. I was afraid Thorin would draw far too much attention…” the glower was still there, so he hastened to add, “And it’s about eight o’ clock in the evening, so we have a few hours until you transform.”

“Bilbo,” the hobbit flinched slightly at the low, gravely rumble, piercing blue eyes leveling him a stern look, “are you injured?”

“What?” Bilbo blinked, “No, no, I’m alright. Goodness me, out of the two of us I wasn’t the one who got mauled by a warg. Again! That’s twice since I’ve met you that you’ve been mauled by a warg now.”

“Bilbo-“

“Maybe it’s a dwarf thing, and you just taste good. Or maybe it’s just a Thorin thing and they’re just attracted to your reckless abandon in the heat of battle. Or maybe—“

“Bilbo,” large hands covered his shoulders. The hobbit looked up hesitantly at his companion, “You are babbling.”

“I…sorry. Old habit of mine,” he smiled self deprecatingly, peering down at his boots. “Happens when I’m nervous.”

“Calm down,” he said gently, slightly digging his fingers into the hobbit’s shoulders and upper back in a massage. Bilbo slumped, fighting off a groan at the wonderful sensation. He could get used to this. “That’s it,” the deep voice encouraged. 

Once he had nearly been reduced to pudding on his feet Thorin asked again, stopping the movement of his hands. Pity that. “Now, are you alright?”

“Mmm…yes. I’ve told you already I’m just fine.” At Thorin’s stern glare Bilbo sighed and deflated, “Well... a bit sore perhaps. I’m not exactly used to carrying so much weight. But you’ve nearly fixed that with that magic you were doing with your hands just now.” 

Thorin’s mouth tightened and carefully looked the hobbit over, taking in the new bruises and cuts he could see, and the slightly red skin peeking out from between his trousers and boots. His hands tightened protectively over the too small shoulders, remembering the wargs and men alike that had tried to get at the little creature.

“Did the wargs hurt you?” golden curls bounced as he shook his head, “And those…men, did not harm you?”

“N-no! No, no, nothing like…like that… It’s just that I don’t suppose they’ve seen a hobbit before, that’s all.” Though Bilbo had the feeling Thorin believed his words as little as Bilbo did himself.

“If any of them so much as looks at you like that again—“

“No, no, really. I don’t think they’ll try anything. Not now that I’ve got a great dwarf hero with me,” he said, shooting a shy smile up at his companion, ”And the owner of the Inn has been very kind to me. She and her husband actually helped me take you inside.”

“How did we end up here?”

“Oh, that was…well. I really couldn’t think of-so I sort of- dragged you. I dragged you. I mean, not really _drag_ , per say, more of an…assisted pull?” Bilbo ran a hand through his curls avoiding eye contact. He could just feel his ears turning red on him, those traitors. “Alright, so maybe it wasn’t the most dignified forms of transportation, but what else was I supposed to do?!” he asked, waving his hands around, blush coming on full force now “I’m a hobbit, I can’t just pick up and carry someone who more than doubles my weight! We can’t all be big and dashing warriors, you know! And then I though of the Shire and how we go down the hills on sleighs in wintertime, so really it was more of an improvised sleigh than anything.”

“Yes, I do recall that.”

That brought the hobbit up short,“What?”

“I remember your improvised sleigh.”

“Oh,” Bilbo blinked, frowning at the smile beginning to form on the dwarf’s face, “then, then why did you say—“

“I meant, how did we get here in this shabby little inn?”

“That! Yes, well, haha.” If Bilbo hadn’t been tempted to hide under a table before then, he certainly was now. Unfortunately the room was sadly lacking in convenient furniture, so he supposed under the bed would have to do. He’d most likely end up covered in dust (it was not up to Rivendell standards of clean, after all) but under the bed he’d go. At least until his cheeks and ears stopped burning. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Ahem. I came across some lights and realized it was a settlement way out in the middle of nowhere. It was odd to see such lights in the day time, but it was so dark and overcast I can understand why they were lit.”

“Apparently we are in Framsburg. Which is surprising as according to all the maps I’ve studied, Framsburg was abandoned years and years ago. These humans have built their settlement here on the ruins of the older city. They call it _New Framsburg_. Which is awfully lucky for us that they did. Well, that they’re here, not that they named it New Framsburg...”

“We have to leave.”

“I-I know. We have a good few hours until midnight yet. That should give us enough time to stock up on a few supplies and have your wounds looked at again. And eat our dinner before it goes completely cold!” 

 

~^^^~

Bilbo led the way out. Walking a little ways in front of Thorin, ring firmly on his finger he ducked his head around the corner of the wall, checking for people. Ducking back he tugged lightly on the dwarf’s sleeve.

In an attempt to make less of a spectacle of themselves by not publicly checking out of the inn and walking off into the bitter winter wastes in the dead of night, they had decided it was best if they slipped out quietly. They would have to leave as close to midnight as they could comfortably cut it, hopefully this being late enough that everyone would have gone to bed. Ideally their absence would only be noticed in the morning, by which time they planned to be far away. Bilbo had made sure to leave extra coin on the bed as a silent apology.

The two had attracted attention enough when they entered town, and now Thorin feared it would hinder their leaving it. New Framsburg was an isolated settlement, the closest being perhaps the Iron Hills, or the few little villages south of the Carrock. Strangers at all would have been a spectacle, not to mention an unconscious dwarf and a hobbit in the dead of winter.

A dwarf and hobbit traveling together was enough to turn eyes anywhere. Hobbits especially were almost unheard of any further east than Bree. Then there was the fact that they had shown they had good coin, with Bilbo paying for the room and meals, stocking up on whatever supplies they could get.

Thorin had seen the way those me were looking at Bilbo. And despite his reassurances, he could tell the little creature had been visibly shaken by the encounter. He could only hope nothing worse had happened before he woke up. Needless to say, drawing attention could be a very bad thing, especially if they found out who Thorin really was.

Bilbo decided it was easier to simply grab the dwarf by the wrist and lead him around then try to get his attention through waving his invisible arms, hissing or awkward poking, “Come on,” the hobbit whispered. Though he did not see it, a smile tugged at the dwarf’s mouth as he allowed himself to be manhandled by someone not even half his own weight. 

Thankfully, the common room was nearly deserted but for a few figures that were slumped into their tankards. Thorin strode at an easy pace, keeping to the edges of the room, his invisible companion now walking at his side. The hand on his wrist was shaking slightly, and he carefully reached out to grasp it properly in his own, all but engulfing it. He squeezed it gently, and couldn’t help the hopelessly fond flutter in his chest as the smaller hand squeezed back.

Slipping out was easier than expected. Thorin sucked in a breath of icy air, the cold shocking and sharpening his senses after the warmth of the inn. Good. He had to be alert. The dwarf glanced up at the cold night sky, breath coming out in a white puff as snow flakes lazily spiraled down from above. 

Unfortunately the snow had kept on in their brief stay indoors. The settlement itself seemed to have been more or less regularly shoveled, with great heaps of snow piled high around the cobbled roads and building fronts making the streets able for travel. He crunched along the road, keeping the invisible mitten-covered hand clasped firmly in his own. 

It was late. Midnight was only a little ways off. 

“Quickly now,” Thorin murmured. Not a soul did they encounter on their way out of the town, shuffling quietly along in the silent of the winter night, snow twirling down to lightly dust their clothing.

The warmth from their combined hands creep right up Bilbo’s arm and settled snugly in his chest, leaving a wistful ache and a flutter of butterflies taking flight in his stomach. Thick, calloused fingers tightened briefly around his own, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment at the feel of it.

Oh how had he longed for this. Circumstances aside, just the chance to be with this dwarf, to have some kind of contact with him. Of course, right from the start Bilbo had felt a, shall we say _uncomfortable_ attraction to the glaring dwarf King. Ahem. But as the quest had worn on, more often than not Bilbo had found himself fantasizing less about certain heated intimacies and more and more about simpler encounters. 

Brushing shoulders as they walked side by side. Fond glances exchanged across the fire. A warm, steady presence lying beside him at night, making him feel more warm and safe and comfortable than his lonely feather mattress at home ever did.

And how he had watched Thorin walking ahead of him, fingers twitching with the desire to reach out and take the larger hand in his own. Just to share in his warmth and simply be with him. Feel those rough, calloused hands covering his own.

Those two long, lonely years alone in his hole, he had tried to forget. But often night would find him laying awake in his bed long into the early hours of the morning, haunted by the ghost of a phantom warmth he had only ever dared to imagine. It plagued him constantly as a dull ache in his chest. It did not do well to dwell so heavily on what-ifs. But no matter how he tried to convince himself that his dwarf would never be his, it did not stop him from dreaming of warm, strong arms surrounding him. Not when his bed was so cold and the memory of his dwarf was his only bitter-sweet spark of warmth he could find.

 

And yet here he was. Years, betrayals, broken hearts and curses later, here he was walking hand in hand with Thorin. A Thorin who did not seem to mind it at very much at all. If anything, the King had even been initiating contact, constantly reaching out to touch the hobbit in some way or form. He had even fallen asleep on the dwarf not so long ago and woken up cuddled into Thorin’s side, covered in his warm fur coat!

Maybe…maybe it wasn’t so foolish a thought after all. Perhaps Thorin too, had lain awake in his large, kingly bed and found his thoughts turning to a small curly-haired hobbit he had once known. Wondered if he was warm and safe and happy in his Shire. If he ever though of a dwarf King in his lonely mountain. 

Maybe, just maybe, Thorin really could be _his_ dwarf.

He allowed a blush to cover his face and ears, only getting worse when he gently rubbed his thumb against Thorin’s palm and felt a larger thumb return the gesture.

“The River Langwell is just a bit south of here,” Bilbo said quietly, drawing closer to the dwarf, and tugging their joined hands up to gesture at the southern exit, “once we pass the gate we’ll head for it."

A large, wooden wall surrounded New Framsburg, scattered with watchtowers at intervals along it. While it was not forbidden to leave in the middle of the night, it was highly unlikely the guards would actually let them pass for their own safety. Being so close to the mountains of Gundabad and established goblin territory was dangerous, more so at night as such creatures had no great love of the sun. Nevertheless, midnight was anywhere between half and hour and mere minutes away. 

They did not have time to argue with the guard.

What they did have was snow. The snow inside the walls had piled up so high that they could easily scale the snowdrifts and clamber over the wall. That was in theory, of course. Bilbo hopped it would be easy, but his sensible Baggins side only had to take one look at the precarious piles of frozen snow before shaking its head and stubbornly declaring it a lost cause.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Bilbo hissed at Thorin as he found himself clinging desperately to the slanted snow, ears straining for any shout or sound of their discovery.

“We have no other choice.” Thorin hissed back.

“Yes we do. There is a much easier way-and don’t you look at me like that!”

“It is much too dangerous. I will not risk you!”

“You won’t be risking anything! I’ve handled far greater security than this before, if you recall the dungeons of Mirkwood. All I have to do is distract them anyway, not conduct some harebrained escape plan!”

Thorin reached out blindly until his fingers met soft fabric and pulled, tucking the hobbit close and sliding down to the bottom of the snowdrift. Bilbo squirmed but the dwarf did not release his hold. Clutching the small being close, he murmured into the invisible hat-covered-curls, “The only reason we are doing this is because we are running out of time, and I don’t fancy you being stuck up on the wall should something go wrong.”

Sighing, the hobbit relished in the warmth for a moment, once against feeling his ears heat up and his heart flutter. If it were up to him he’d just stay here, nice and safe and warm with his dwarf holding him close. Perhaps inside though, and somewhere a bit friendlier with a proper fire and tea and a nice quilt they could cuddle under. Sadly, such was not the case, especially as he still couldn’t be entirely sure if Thorin was his dwarf. After all, he was, in fact, King Under the Mountain and would doubtless not have the time to cuddle lonely and touch-starved hobbits once he had his Kingdom back.

That’s what he told himself in any case. But his heart was often disinclined to help him in such matters.

“I know, Thorin. I know. I’ll be careful.” The great arms around him tightened for a moment before loosening, large hands trailing gently along his body to help the hobbit back on his feet, “Head south once you’re through the gate. Just turn left and keep going. I’ll meet you at the river.” 

Not ten seconds had passed after Bilbo began making his way over to the gates, when Thorin felt the familiar stretching and scratching of his transformation. Dropping to the ground, he kept his body low, wincing as his lengthening muscles and sprouting fur pulled on his still tender shoulder and side. He squirmed out of his clothes as best he could, thankfully not ripping the arms or legs.

The scent of _bilbohobbitmyhobbit_ filled his nostrils as he struggled up, reaching out to nose against an invisible mitten-covered hand, “Easy, easy,” Bilbo soothed, stroking down his muzzle and under his jaw, “lets get you packed up.” The wolf leaned happily into his hobbit’s touch and reached up to lick at where he thought the face and rosy cheeks were, “Come on now, we can play later,” Bilbo quietly chided, “right now we need to get out of here.” Together they quickly stuffed the dwarf’s clothes into their packs, and both were then secured to the wolf’s back.

“Alright now, I’m going ahead to distract the guard. You slip out when they aren’t looking. Unfortunately they’ll probably shoot you as soon as look at you.” He huffed and ran a hand through the white and grey fur, leaning down to be level with the great head, “they don’t know you’re just a big fluffy, cuddly, lovely thing. Please, please stay safe and don’t do anything rash.”

Thorin couldn’t help but preen under the attention, tail wagging, nuzzling into the soft little being happily. He barely managed to hold in a whine. _Not now_ , his inner dwarf King lectured, _there is danger._

The heat of the invisible body left the wolf, but thanks to his enhanced senses he could easily track the hobbit. If he watched the snow carefully he could make out footprints and indents in the snow marking Bilbo’s process. Growling slightly as he picked up the scent and location of the guards he crept after his invisible companion, keeping as low to the ground and snow as possible. Once more Thorin found himself thankful for this form, as his grey-white fur blending in nicely with the snow.

Up ahead was the gate. The heavy wooden door was closed, and guards were stationed in the watch towers above. It looked secure. Of course, these men had never dealt with a hobbit before, let alone the Stinging-Fly and Dragon-Riddler.

A sharp knock cut across the stillness of the night, startling the guards. There was another, as if someone was rapping their knuckles against the heavy wood of the gate.

“Who goes there?” One of the guards raised his lantern to cast light down on the door, searching for the cause of the knock. Nothing but the wind answered, and the two guards exchanged a wary glance across expanse of the door.

“Perhaps it’s just the wind?”

Another sharper knock rang out, more insistent now. There was no mistaking it for what it was.

“Show yourself!” The other shouted, “Friend or foe, you will be harmed if you hide in the shadows!” Thorin felt his hackles rise and a growl began low in his chest, but his rational dwarf side forced him down. Not yet. Wait.

“Do you see it?”

“I see nothing.”

“A wraith then, Some evil spirit come down from the mountains.”

“It won’t be the first time we’ve dealt with wraiths, nor the last! Be gone! Go back to your shadowy mountain!”

An awful, shrieking whistle cut through the air, rising above the wind like a scream. Both men startled, bows drawn as they searched for the source of the nose fearfully.

Thusly distracted, neither noticed the door to the guard tower opened from the _inside_ of the wall. Imagine their surprise when a great groan and the clanking of chains alerted them to the gate creaking open.

“What sorcery is this!?”

“Quickly, close the gate!”

Taking his chance, the wolf dashed out from between the slightly opened doors, leaping out into the wild of the frosty plains. Looking back there was still no sign of the guards, as he imagined they were now inside the wall, trying to close the doors.

Was Bilbo still in there with them? What if the gates closed before he could slip out? What if one of the men stumbled over his invisible form and thought him a foe?

Teeth bared and ears flared back, he snarled savagely. No. _No._ Those men would not hurt his hobbit. He threw back his head and let out a piercing howl, delighting in the resulting shouts from around the wall. Good. He had their attention. Now to keep it on himself and give Bilbo a chance to escape.

The Door was now firmly shut, and Thorin could only hope Bilbo was not inside. More guards were appearing along the top of the wall, calling to each other at the threat of a vicious wolf so close to the gates. One could never take such a thing lightly. Orcs had been known to ally themselves with wolves before, and being this close to Mount Gundabad, any miscalculation could be a fatal one. 

Letting out another piercing howl, he dashed closer, entering into their line of sight. Arrows sailed through the air, but he was swifter, darting nimbly away. Snarling savagely he began to run, keeping in mind Bilbo’s instructions about meeting near the river.

He was not pursued, though a few more arrows tried to make their mark as he quit the settlement. He hoped it was enough that they would pay no notice to an invisible hobbit.

Once he was well away and could see the outline of the frozen river he halted, raising his nose to the air to try and catch anything of Bilbo. Snuffling around he could catch no trace of the creature nearby. As a wolf he could move much faster and surer over the snow and harsh terrain.

With this in mind he turned and made his way back, nose raised to try and catch any hint of that warm scent he knew so well. The wind and snow whipping by him was more of a hindrance until _bilbohobbitbilbomybilbo—_

_There!_

Launching his body across the snow he flew down the slope of the rise he had earlier climbed. Only a few of his (much larger) paces down there was movement amidst the snow. He bounded over giving a bark and felt around with his head.

“Thorin!” The hobbit appeared in front of him, well up to his waist in snow but glaring at him none the less, “What were you thinking, you big furry lump?!” a small hand smacked against his pelt in irritation, but Thorin couldn’t care. He just wagged his tail happily, tongue lolling.

“I go through all of that just so we can leave quietly, and then you have to go and make a bloody scene of it all! You could have been hit! Then what would I do?!” The wolf pounced, taking the hobbit with him to the fluffy snow of the ground, the fall cushioned by the snow. He delighted in the squeak of surprise and let out a happy rumble, licking at the cold-flushed face underneath him.

“Ack! Oh, this is not over, you great lug. Not over at _all!_ Just because you’re all affectionate doesn’t mean you can get away with a stunt like that! That thing at the gate _and then_ tackling poor, long suffering hobbits into the snow! Really.”

His words held no real heat to them. Both were well aware of it, though Thorin would only be smug and Bilbo would just mutter about big, soulful puppy eyes that really should not be allowed.

Crossing the frozen river quickly, they followed it west until the foot lands of the Mountains were upon them. Great jagged teeth stood silently, looming out of the snow.

Somewhere in that twisted labyrinth of unforgiving rock and ice was a Fortress, tall and impenetrable, a silent threat to all who beheld it.

And a lone dwarf and hobbit made their way ever closer.

~^^^~   

“King Thranduil, I bring tidings on behalf of my father, Lord Elrond, and of Mithrandir.”

A long, curved eyebrow raised at the sight of the elf before him, hand over her breast, bowing respectfully. “I was aware of the wizard passing through my realm, along with another,” slender fingers tapped against the arm of his throne, “Why is it then, that the daughter of the Lord of Rivendell is the only one to pay their respects to me in my Hall?”

“Mithrandir is on an errand of great urgency and I have offered in his place to great you.”

“And what of the dwarf that travels with him? I do not allow mortals to pass freely through my realm, dwarves of Erebor especially.”

“It is on behalf of the dwarves of Erebor that I am come. Perhaps you have noticed of late that not all is well in Erebor, my Lord.”

“Yes. The Great King Under the Mountain has taken ill, wealthy lords are infiltrating the council and the mountain herself revolts against Durin’s line. I cannot say I envy Oakenshield.”

“Erebor is on the verge of revolt,” Arwen said curtly, “There is a plot to overthrow the line of Durin and to put another far more dangerous on the throne. Many may die should this come to pass.”

“Tell me; why should I help Thorin Oakenshield? Why not allow this usurper to take the throne? Surely he cannot be more dangerous than a gold-maddened King.”

“Vorvik Firebeard is an isolationist. He believes that dwarves should stand by their own kind and have dealings with no other. If Firebeard takes rule you will no longer have a trading partner, nor ally from the mountain.

“If the dwarves wish to separate themselves from the rest of us I can see no reason to stop them. I would even go so far as to encourage the notion and be done with the miserable race once and for all.”

“It is not simply isolation they would seek. Firebeard is a militarist with grand ideas of dwarven supremacy. You may find yourself with an aggressor on your borders, relations between your kingdoms being what they are. It will bring about the end of peace.”

“Do the dwarves think they can overpower the might of the elder?” slender fingers traced the elegant steam of a wine glass, tapping against it faintly,If they think they can try it will be my pleasure to show them the error of their ways.”

“And what of Dale? What of the humans settled there? Would you sacrifice their lives for the sake of a grudge?”

“What is it you seek, Elrond daughter? Are you asking for my support on their behalf? Would the great Line of Durin seek my aid? For I shall only consider it even if Oakenshield himself comes before me and begs.”

“Vorvik does not work alone. He has support from another, a man who claims he is a sorcerer out of the north. Tugûthul is his name, the so called-revolt of the mountain is entirely his doings. He has the power to bring life back into the dead.” Thranduil froze, staring intently at the elf before him. _“Necromancy,”_ he all but spat.

“Two wizards and my father believe that this sorcerer is the very same disciple of the necromancer that plagued this very forest and first brought about it’s corruption,” Arwen said, voice steady, “Will you do nothing against one who turned these once fair woods foul? Far and Wide it is called _Mirkwood_ , and many think it a cursed and dark place. Even my kin do not pass within gladly, for there is very little fairness left to be found under its boughs.”

“Do not speak to me of my own realm! I know better than any what has been done to it.”

“Will you not then bring this sorcerer to judgment, show him the true power of an elven king?”

A slow smirk overcame his handsome features, “I know what it is you try to do, Evenstar. You seek to entice me to aid Oakenshield with your promises of justice and revenge, of cleansing my realm. But I will not be swayed so easily. The curse upon my forest has been lifted. There is nothing more that can be done than to watch it restore itself to its former glory. Why should I trouble myself in this affair when it does not concern me or my own?”

“It could mean the end of Dale and the many lives living there. We believe that Tugûthul is raising an undead army along with orcs and wargs. Firebeard is little more than his puppet, but if he is crowned than this sorcerer gains control the mightiest and wealthiest kingdom east of the sea. You will loose your trading partners and be forced to rely more heavily upon your recovering forest to survive.”

“Do not assume to know of the might of the dwarves, nor of my realm. We are survivors. We stand while others fall. No sorcerer could even hope to threaten my realm.”

Arwen gave the barest of sighs, “You will be rewarded, King Thranduil.”

There was a spark in his dark eyes and he smirked, “Ah, finally. I was beginning to wonder how many more arguments you could produce before coming to the point. Do continue. Oh, I know you think me petty and cruel for offering my aid only for the sake of reward. I can see it in your eyes. So just and clear your heart must be.” The elf king leaned forward suddenly intense, “You do not know these creatures as I do, Evenstar. There is nothing more dear to a dwarf gold and precious gems. If Oakenshield wants my help, he must be willing to part with what he cares for most. Show me how great his need truly is.”

“This is the line of Durin. Oakenshield is no different than his grandfather, mad with lust over the Arkenstone. I will not risk the lives of my people if he will not give something dear of his in return.”

Arwen held firm, and spoke with confidence “I cannot make promises on behalf of those I am not, but you will be reward greatly. If it comes to it, I shall convey your demands myself and act in your interest to see it best brought about.”

“Nay, I think I shall send one of my own to properly negotiate on my behalf. After all, the only reason I received my due from the Battle of Five Armies was at the behest of the wizard and a Halfling, who was banished and nearly executed for doing so. I believe a bit more caution would not be amiss.”

“Both Mithrandir an the Halfling have become involved, if that would help alleviate your fear of not receiving your due.”

“Interesting. And I wonder how Oakenshield feels about having a renounced traitor in his affairs. Regardless, I shall send one of my own to Erebor. Both to oversee my own interests, and to see if these claims of yours are true. Should it be needed I will send my support along.”

Arwen gave a formal bow, “Very well. I am headed to Erebor myself if your guard wishes to join me.”

“Then you shall leave at first light. May the light of the Valar ever shine on you and your kin.”

~^^^~ 

Bilbo was poking at the fire with a stick, dreaming of warm bread and thick soup when he felt something move. From within his pocket. For a moment, a fierce, possessive rage burned through him, everything suddenly focusing down to his pocket and he fumbled for it, the need overwhelming to find his most precious treasure within—

It was still there.

_Safe._

The ring was clenched tightly in his grasp, no doubt making imprints into his palm. Eyes squeezing shut his head reeled from the odd burst of such intense emotions. Then he felt it again. Movement of some kind. From his right pocket, not the left.

“Oh!” a little brown nose and whiskers tentatively peeked out of his pocket at the hobbit, followed by two beady little eyes, “Hello there,” Bilbo cooed at the creature, previous upset forgotten “you can come out if you like. We won’t hurt you.”

“What is _that?_ ”

Bilbo shot the dwarf a disapproving frown at his tone, “I’m not entirely sure. Looks at bit like a shrew or maybe a mouse. Perhaps a hamster? But then the tail… She’s a soft little thing though.”

“She?”

“Why not a ‘she’?”

“Aren’t unspecified animals usually referred to as male in common?

“Yes, that does seem to be a convention. I’ve always thought it a bit odd and more than a bit unfair though, really.”

“Fair enough, I was merely curious.”

“Well good. Besides, I don’t think Ginger has the right under parts to be male from what I can see.”

_“Ginger?”_

“Well, she has such nice golden-brown fur I thought-“

“You named that thing?”

“Yes. Yes I did.” Bilbo said slowly, eyebrow raising, “Do you have a problem with that?”

“Bilbo, you cannot keep it. We cannot drag it through the snow and mountains into a cursed fortress. It was probably looking for a place to burrow in this cave and sought your pocket for warmth.”

“I know, I know. But the poor thing probably hasn’t had anything descent to eat for ages. The least we can do is give her some cram-or maybe some seeds if we have any. I think they’re supposed to like seeds and kernels. What ever she is.”

He could practically feel the wolf whining and sulking in his chest. Glaring at the fur ball while Bilbo was searched through their packs for rodent munchies, Thorin had to agree with the feeling. That thing was just wasting their supplies. His too-kind, overly generous hobbit would get attached to the rodent and then he’d be upset when they had to leave it. And if there was one thing Thorin could not stand it was a sad hobbit.

The big droopy eyes and the dejected slump of his shoulders, all hunched in on himself and sighing forlornly- _no_. Just no.

Of course that was his irritation towards the thing. It had absolutely nothing to do with any kind of jealousy of any kind. None at all. Though if the hobbit wanted to stroke and cuddle and coo at anything, why a rodent? Why not a majestic wolf with a regal bearing and luxurious fur—

“Thorin, are you alright?”

“Fine,” he gritted out between his clenched teeth, “just going to find some fire wood,” and he stomped out of the cave to leave the bewildered hobbit staring after him.

~^^^~ 

The prince pushed through the crowds of dwarves that seemed to perpetually occupy the entrance hall, expertly dodging around and in between to get to the main gates.

“Dwalin!” He shouted at the familiar sight of the bald head. The warrior caught him up in a quick hug and fondly ruffled his hair.

“Good to see ye lad.”

“Prince Kili,” The grey wizard was smiling down at him, “It is a pleasure to see you on your feet again.”

“Gandalf! Oh thank Mahal you’re here.”

Dwalin frowned thunderously, “What’s happened?”

“The usual, mostly,” Kili sighed dramatically. “Firebeard keeps gaining influence along with that stupid sorcerer, Balin and Amad are trying not to outright kill both of them, and there’s been more and more creeper outbreaks.” He sulked, “Fili ran off to the mines when the alarm sounded just so he could be all cool and heroic. Bofur keeps talking about how dashing the crown prince is, and how he’s such a skilled warrior who puts the needs of the people above his own.”

The young dwarf pouted, “He never says anything like that about me! I’m stuck in council meetings and taking bloody edicate and diplomacy classes all for the sake of the people too! But do people sing my praises? Nooo.”

“Bofur’s a good man,” Dwalin said, grunting in approval.

“What?” Kili exclaimed, feeling very betrayed. "You're supposed to side with me! How could you betray your prince like this?

“Fili's my prince as well, ye scamp." Kili stuck his tongue out at the guard. "I’m sure yer brother was nice’n dashin’,"Dwalin continued, rolling his eyes at the younger prince's antics. "Bofur knows his business. The royal family needs all the support they can get, and if it’s from talking about deeds of the princes then we’ll take it. Both of ye are well liked, and every one knows Bofur. Bit of gossip and tale tellin’ can go a long way, especially with those in the lower circles who are bearing the brunt of the attacks.”

Kili made a sound that was somewhere between agreement and disgruntlement. “Anyway, follow me,” the archer said, starting back to the mountain proper, “Amad wants to speak in private.”

Private of course meant ‘Thorin’s company only’, with Dís being the natural exception.

As soon as Dwalin and Gandalf entered into the private quarters of the royal family they were swarmed.

“Gandalf!”

“Have you seen Thorin?”

“Dratted wizard! Where have you been all this time?”

“Are you going to fight Tugûthul?”

“Can you break the curse?”

Gandalf held up one hand, halting the barrage of questions and demands being aimed at him, “One at a time, my friends. But first, I have seen your King.”

Unsurprisingly, this did little to calm Thorin's company.

“Where is he?”

“Is he still cursed?”

“Why hasn’t he come back?”

“Did you bring him with you?”

“He is safe for the time being.” The wizard affirmed, voice easily carrying over the din, “As safe as any of us can be in the current circumstances, which perhaps is not saying much.”

“Shazara!” Dís easily silenced her companions when they started up again and turned to the wizard, arms crossed “Is my idiot brother still in danger from the sorcerer? Can he still be harmed through the curse?”

“Tugûthul has already done all he can to Thorin. He cannot make the curse any better nor worse from where he is.”

“How could you just leave him out there?” asked Oin, angrily.

“I have not simply abandoned him to his fate!” the wizard’s eye brows rose threateningly, “No, Thorin now has what he needs well within reach to break his curse.”

“Could you tell us where Thorin is, or last was as the case may be?” asked Balin. “Please, Gandalf. We’re all worried.”

The wizard gave a kind smile to the white-haired dwarf, “I’d imagine he is somewhere amongst the northern reaches of the Misty Mountains by now, and headed for the Fortress of Tugûthul himself.”

_“What?!”_

The wizard kept talking over the resulting outburst, voice magically cutting through the others, “He is going of his own will, and if he succeeds in his task you may very well be rid of your sorcerer problem for good.”

Dís crossed her arms, “With all due respect Gandalf, this is my brother. There is _no_ dwarf more determined nor narrow mindedly stubborn about a task than Thorin, nor is there one with such a reckless and wildly dramatic approach then him. Hardly any common sense in that one. How is sending him alone to the stronghold of someone he clearly has a grudge against a good idea? He’ll do something stupid and get himself killed within a minute of arriving-provided he gets there at all.”

There was a course of “Ayes” and “That’s Thorin alright” from the group, all being very much acquainted with Thorin Oakenshield and his heart-attack inducing stunts.

“My dear Lady,” Gandalf said kindly, “I would never abandon Thorin to such a fate. And I have not. He is not traveling alone.”

“Explain.”

“Your King is in the best hands imaginable, I can assure you.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” said Fili “he may have already glowered and brooded whoever it is you sent with him to death.”

“Aye,” agreed Bofur, “he’s gotten better these days, but our Thorin’s never been too comfortable around foreigners or those too friendly with elves.”

“If it were anyone else I would fully agree, but,” the wizard paused to take out and light his pipe, earning a few eye-rolls and groans in doing so. They all knew Gandalf the Grey was downright dramatic when he wanted to be. Which was unfortunately often. “In this case I’d make an exception," he said, after taking a good few drags of his pipe, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room.

“Damn wizards always bein’ so mysterious about everythin’,” Dwalin drawled from where he was leaning against the wall calmly, watching them all bicker in amusement.

“Oi Dwalin,” said Gloin suddenly, “You’re the King’s Guard. Why did you let him run off with some stranger?”

“Cause he’s not with a stranger.” Replied the warrior smugly.

“You know he's with?” asked Kili, all but bouncing with curiosity.

“Aye.”

“Care to tell us?” asked Dori, patience running quite thin by this point.

“Aye, I can tell ye.” There was collective silence as everyone started expectantly at the tattood dwarf, who merely grinned all the wider right back at them.

“He’s no better than the wizard!” cried Nori, “You’re just lording it over us all, you smug bastard!”

Dwalin threw back his head and laughed, while the other dwarves muttered amongst themselves and Bifur made a rather rude hand gesture at the guard.

“Tell us, brother,” asked Balin, far past the end of his vast patience. “Who is traveling with Thorin?!” The tattooed warrior was entirely too gleeful for knowing more about a situation than his older brother. He grinned unabashedly at Balin, “haven’t you lot figured it out?”

“There was a chorus of “ _No’s!”_ and _“Get on with it's!”_

"It’s the burglar, of course.”

_“What?!”_

Dwarves from three hallways away could feel their ears ringing at the noise that made.

~^^^~ 

“Ginger!?” They were walking through the snow, following the frozen river and climbing up and up into the harsh rocks of the mountain. Thorin growled and prowled over to Bilbo’s side, glaring at the sneaky, hobbit-stealing rodent blinking innocently up at Bilbo from the palm of his mittened hand.

“How on earth did you manage to get back in my pocket?”

That’s what Thorin would like to know. There had been entirely too much nuzzling and cooing and stroking of that thing before they had broken camp. He had had far more of Bilbo making soft little noises and fussing and petting it than he could take.

If the hobbit insisted on carrying on like that, surely it would be more sensible to do so to a worthier creature. A great, noble wolf, for example, was of much greater magnificence than some rodent, and clearly deserved such treatment.

Especially from hobbits. That one there, in particular. With the golden curls and the soft, cuddly body. Still holding that damned rat. Curses.

“I put you back in the cave just before we left!” Bilbo scolded the fur ball blinking up innocently at him from his hand, “How did-Thorin? Thorin, no.” Bilbo quickly brought Ginger closer to his body as Thorin advanced, eyes blazing and hackles risen. The wolf made a grab for the furball with his mouth causing Bilbo to take a quick step back and Ginger to squeak loudly.

“Hey! You stop that right now!” Thorin gave a yowl in defiance but he had evoked the wrath of the hobbit. “Look at yourself!” and out came the finger, mitted though it was, jabbing at Thorin as if it was a thing to be feared. Mahal have mercy. His hobbit was far too adorable. “A great beast like you going after such a small little thing. Why, I thought you had more honour than that, Thorin Oakenshield. There is no reason to be such a bully.”

The wolf made an odd, forlorn sound, somewhere between a grumble and a yelp.

“Be nice to the poor little thing.” Bilbo chided, softening at the larger creature’s sulking, “She’s stuck out here with us.” Thorin gave an inarticulate bark and turned, heading back in the direction they were traveling before they had discovered their hobbit-stealing parasite.

They walked in silence. Broody, grumpy, long-suffering silence on Thorin’s part, and contemplative and mildly amused silence on Bilbo’s. “She does have nice fur, don’t you think?” the hobbit remarked after a while, “It’s a lovely colour. So very soft, too. Probably would be good for a cuddle.”

Thorin sniffed, body tense and he glared determinedly at the snow, refusing to look at his hobbit when he was taking about that usurper. Even his inner dwarf King had developed an eye twitch. He should have scared that evil little rat off when he had the chance!

“Of course, you know I’ve a weakness for larger creatures, myself,” Bilbo remarked casually. “Ginger is a lovely little handful, but you’d have to be very careful not to loose her. Now, something larger on the other hand is more to my preferences.”

The wolf did _not_ perk up at that suggestion. He maintained his regal composure and aloofness. His ears certainly did not twitch hopefully.

“Hmm, let me think…” Bilbo fought back a smile at his companion’s awful attempt at subtly, “You know, I happen to know a wolf that’s just perfect for me.”

Turning his head, Thorin glowered suspiciously at the hobbit. How many wolves did he know? This one, certainly, but Bilbo had never called him perfect before.

“He has a beautiful white and grey coat and he’s terribly gallant, you know.”

__Whoever this wolf thought he was, he could just go bugger off and find his own hobbit as far as Thorin was concerned. He made low grumbly noises in the back of his throat and huffed unhappily at the cruelness of the world.__

“Really,” affirmed Bilbo, smiling teasingly back at the sulky wolf. It should not have been so enduring how rock-headed Thorin could be sometimes. But it was. It really was. “And he’s walking beside me right now. He's just the softest and loveliest creature you’ve ever seen.”

Thorin turned around, tongue lolling hopefully and tail wagging, “He is, he really is!” Bilbo said, laughing at the completely open and dopy look of over excitement his companion was giving him. “Maybe he’s a bit overbearing at times, and likes to slobber everywhere and throw his weight around…but he’s really the best companion I’ve ever had,” his voice had become softer, the note of teasing beginning to wane.

“Loyal, selfless, and unbearably brave and heroic. And stubborn. Oh, don’t even get me going on how much of a stubborn, hard-head he is! I can only thank the Green Lady for the honour of being his friend.” Bilbo had stopped walking, and a great head pressed up against his front, whining affectionately.

He lent down and gently pressed his forehead against Thorin’s, eyes closing in contentment.

Perhaps it was cowardly to confess such affection for Thorin while the dwarf was in his much more approachable wolf form. To be fair, the sudden rush of affection and love for his companion had taken him by surprise, and he simply _had_ to vocalize it.

“Ginger is lovely,” he ignored the huff of irritation at the mention of the furball, “but _you_ are both my companion, and my dear friend. And I won’t abandon you. Not if I can help it.”

Shelter was becoming harder to find. There was no shortage of twisted rock and overhanging ledges. But the further into the mountains that the followed the river, the closer and closer they came to the Fortress, and to Mount Gundabad.

One good thing about these awful mountains, Bilbo reflected, was that finding a good cave was easy, even as he shuddered with the memory of the ground suddenly opening and falling down, down, into the depths of Goblin Town. The caves here were plentiful. You just had to watch them a bit, and make sure you weren’t camped out on someone’s doorstep. Once was quite enough. Considering they were now in the juncture of the Misty Mountains and Ered Mithrin, woefully close to Mount Gundabad and just a hop-skip away from the towering Fortress of a dangerous wizard, well. They certainly checked every cave over very thoroughly.

Perhaps a little too much so, if anyone were to ask Bilbo.

Thorin would not be swayed in giving any cave or hidden spot they found at least three, excruciatingly thorough inspections, from front to back, top to bottom. Bilbo had finally snapped after they had been walking for almost an hour, moving from spot to spot, midday come and gone and the newly dwarven Thorin spending a good ten minutes taping and prodding at every bit of rock in sight and muttering distrustfully at whatever it was he found.

“Thorin!” the hobbit began, trying not to sniffle from the cold, “I am tired and cold and hungry, and absolutely sick of standing around uselessly. Either give me something to do, or decide if we are going to be goblin food or not if we rest here.”

“I will not have a repeat of the Misty Mountains,” came the reply, the dwarf not turning from his close inspection of a light coloured rock jutting from the cave roof. “These mountains are far more dangerous. Mahal only knows what those orc-scum have done to it.”

“Oh believe me, I’m just as keen as you to avoid any more Goblin Town interludes, thank you. But Thorin, you’ve been at it for nearly a quarter hour now, any hidden unpleasantness should have long revealed itself.”

“Should have. That does not mean it has.”

“We are in what is perhaps the second most dangerous mountain range in Arda, I don’t think there is a truly safe spot anywhere in all this ice and rock.”

Thorin finally stopped prodding at the rock and turned to the hobbit, retort on the tip of his tongue. All thought of argument fled the dwarf’s mind as he stared.

“Ah...Thorin?” asked Bilbo in concern as the dwarf simply stared just over his shoulder. “Are you quiet alright?” Large hands took his shoulders and turned the hobbit around, so that he had his back to the broad chest. “What are we…? Yavanna’s grace!”

And there it was. Looming suddenly out of the white of the sky was the outline of a shape. A ridiculously large shape.

The Fortress. Although it was only the outline of the structure, Bilbo felt his knees go weak at the sight. Towering imperiously amongst the jagged peaks they could see it now, even if only faintly through the snow clouds surrounding them.

Thorin’s hand found Bilbo’s and squeezed gently. “Come. We cannot hope to enter that thing in this weather. I believe you are right in that this cave should not hold any hidden dangers.”

Perhaps the one good thing about the blizzard was that it distorted and covered their scent almost completely, not to mention their tracks. Any soul, goblin, orc or warg would think twice before even venturing out into the freezing, pure white mess that was the outside. Peering out of the cave mouth from where he was huddled against the wall, Bilbo could not make out a single thing aside from the blinding whiteness. It was as if the world had simply ceased to exist.

Tugging the blankets tighter around himself he tried to ignore the clattering of his teeth. If ever there was a time he wished for a warm hearth and a nice hot cup of tea, it as certainly now. Often he had longed for these things, but he honestly did not believe he had ever been this cold. For all that he was sitting as far back in the cave as he could get, flurries still swirled inside every little while, reaching out like a hand to brush against his huddled form and try to sneak under his blankets and furs.

Once again he found himself eternally grateful for having his socks and boots, hobbit respectability be bothered.

“Could you tell me about Erebor?”

Thorin looked across at the hobbit, taking in his huddled form and the slight shaking of his shoulders. They could not risk a fire. Not this close to the Fortress. The dwarf rose and settled down next to Bilbo, placing himself closer to the cave opening so as to shield the smaller from the wind. Bilbo smiled gratefully up at him, heart fluttering at the open display of concern.

“It’s just-I haven’t really had a chance to see it yet. Well, I mean, Erebor as it’s supposed to be. I suppose I had the privilege at being possibly the first living being inside the mountain proper for close to a hundred years, but I can’t say it was a pleasant experience. What with dust and debris strewn everywhere, gouge marks in the walls and floor, and a live dragon flying around trying to kill everyone.”

And so, Thorin did. The two sat huddled in their little cave while Thorin told the hobbit of his home. What it was then, and what it was now. Listening to the dwarf’s deep, rich voice with the blizzard whistling along outside gave Bilbo such a sense of peace, of safety. Maybe his toes were cold and he was missing at least two more meals than he would like, but here, huddled against this dwarf, he felt at home.

Thorin had lapsed into silence, gazing out into the raging blizzard outside.

“I would very much like to see it,” Bilbo began, “Erebor.” Thorin’s eyes turned to him, suddenly tense, and he fidgeted a bit under their gaze. “If…if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, that is.”

Hopefully he wasn’t overstepping. Thorin may have named him a friend, but he did steal the Arkenstone. And protection of the King or no, the thief of such a culturally important item may not be entirely welcomed into a dwarven kingdom. Certainly not by everyone. The last thing he wanted to do was to accidentally cause the current rule of Erebor even more problems than it already had-which was certainly far too much-with the Sorcerer and Firebeard doing all kinds of awful things.

“Of course not.” Thorin answered gruffly, reaching his arm around the hobbit, “You are always—“

His fingers brushed just lightly against Bilbo’s pocket.

His left pocket.

Bilbo jerked back, hate and jealous anger surging through him, needing to get away from the greedy dwarf seeking to steal his most precious—

He blinked.

No. No, that wasn’t…

Thorin was staring at him, hurt written across his features along with something else. Puzzlement. Shock. _Desire,_ whispered a small voice in the back of his head.

Normally, if this particular dwarf chose to gaze at him with desire, Bilbo would have been more than happy to reciprocate. This was not that. The dwarf wasn’t looking at Bilbo. He was looking at _it._

Something about Thorin’s expression was _wrong._ Off. Just for a moment, just a moment, there it was. A shadow of the dragon. Smaug’s eyes again staring out at him from his dwarf’s face, mocking, greedy, grasping—

Bilbo gasped and broke his gaze, hunching in around himself, hand clutched over his pounding heart.

_Stop._

_Stop._

_You are safe. He will not harm you._

_(He will not have it!)_

_(He would not take it!)_

He looked up at the dwarf and found him staring back. Eyes cold as ice. It was as if a great, warm fire was suddenly dosed with ice-water, leaving him alone in the cold, desperately seeking the last vestiges of disappearing warmth. But there was none to be had.

“I-I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” Bilbo’s hands began to tremble.

“I think I do.” Thorin’s beautiful voice offered no comfort this time, and Bilbo shivered to hear it. “And they say dwarves are greedy,” he gave a sharp laugh, an awful sound. ”Clearly they know nothing of hobbits.”

His heart stuttered in his chest, trying to make sense of it all. “Thorin, w-what are—“

“All of your talk of forgiveness, and it was just a lie.”

“What?!” Bilbo squeaked, throat beginning to constrict, “What ever do you mean?”

“You say you have forgiven me, and yet you still flinch away from my touch.” There was something _wrong_ with Thorin. His eyes, they’d gone wrong. Oh Valar, those eyes! The same ones that had haunted his dreams, hateful, grasping, piercing—

_Oh please no_

“What a cruel being you are,” Thorin sneered, “seeking to torture my conscience by acting as if I would hurt you at one wrong word. You would make me feel a monster for your vindictive pleasure.”

“No! No, Thorin, it’s not like that,” Bilbo cried, desperately. “I was scared of you-at first, but I haven’t been, not for months and months!”

“The what was that just now?”

“I-I don’t—“

“Why did I ever think to trust the words of a liar?”

_Oh please, no._

This had to be some kind of a dream, an awful nightmare. He had just dosed off in the cave. His dwarf would be there when he woke, and he’d smile down fondly and ask how he’d slept—

It could not be happening again.

“How many times must I apologize?” The dwarf’s voice was steal, sharp and biting and bitter. “What more would you have me do? Lay my kingdom at your feet? Swear you a lifetime of servitude?” He shook his head, glaring down at the hobbit, “All I have done for you, defended and protected, and you seek to torment me in return?”

“I-I’m sorry-“

“Be silent!” For too long had Thorin desired the affections of this hobbit, this one being who had so much power over him. And yet no matter what he did, the hobbit still treated him as an aggressor. Still flinched back from his touch. It was maddening.

Something danced in the back of his mind, a slight, flitting thing, urgent and desperately trying to reach him. He squashed it back.

Thorin was unaware of the strange ringing in his ears, or the dull itch in his finger tips were he had unwittingly brushed against a great power. Something that wanted him, called out to him to extend his hand and

_take it_

_The treacherous Halfling only seeks to twist and betray you_

_He never cared for you_

_He only seeks to take his revenge and mock you_

_Deceitful creature_

_Punish him for his betrayal_

“Always you are shy and timid and unsure, you act as if I will break you at the slightest move! What more must I do to prove myself to you!?

“No, no! You’ve done more than enough! It’s-“

“Silence!” Bilbo flinched back in fear.

_He’s not going to hurt you, it’s alright it’s alright, it’s-_

_Feet dangling high in the air he tries to breath but he can’t, Thorin’s hands squeezing, squeezing around his neck-_

Some kind of a noise must have escaped him—a chocked sob or a whimper—for all that he tried and tried to hold it back. Thorin’s face darkened even further.

“Enough!” Thorin roared, blind fury pulsing through him. He didn’t even know why he was so angry, all he knew was that he was, and it was that devilish creature before him was the cause. Thorin grabbed the wretched burglar by his collar, delighting in the gasp of fear wrenched from his throat and lifted him off the ground—

Something snapped.

A harsh ripping, tearing pain raged through the dwarf’s body and he dropped the hobbit, crying out. Only, it wasn’t a cry.

For the first time since it had happened, he could clearly feel the agony of his bones reshaping and lengthening, teeth elongating, claws and fur bursting out of his skin.

Thorin’s head was suddenly clear, free of the strange ringing and pulsing hate that had so suddenly overtaken him. In a rush of horror he realized what he had done and deep, soul wrenching shame licked up like flames and engulfed him whole. The last thing he saw was a terrified Bilbo, rumpled and tear stained, cowed up against the cave wall.

_Bilbo_

Everything went black.

~^^^~ 

Panting heavily the great wolf stood before the petrified hobbit, claws stretching against the cave floor, ears flared back.

For a moment Bilbo’s mind simply refused to work.

“…Thor-“ Bilbo choked out shakily, trying desperately to make sense of the situation.

It wasn’t midnight. It wasn’t even close—

_Those awful eyes had bore into his own, eyes of a dragon, a cruel and heartless worm, laughing at him as he tries to breathe, struggling for breath—_

Thorin had transformed. Violent and sudden, the sharp crunching of bone snapping into place and making the hobbit cringe at their harshness. That had never happened before. From what little of the transformation he knew, it was never painful.

And now…

It was no fiery blue that met his gaze. Two great, yellow-brown eyes met his own without even a trace of the dwarf behind. He gasped in horror, scooting backwards backward in fear.

That was _not_ Thorin.

“No. Oh Valar, no.”

Shuffling forward the wolf made its way over to the strange creature. The little thing scrambled backwards, but it smelled so good and the wolf could not stop itself from wanting to be closer to it. Raising his nose he got a sent of the delicious creature- _Keepsafeprotectminecuddle_ -and his tongue lolled out happily.

A howl cut through the dull roar of the wind outside, and the wolf stilled. It heard it again and raised its head, growling lowly. It made towards the cave mouth when it was stopped by the creature.

“Thorin? Thorin, can you hear me?”

It snapped at the little creature for the interruption. There was no time for soft creatures. Enemies, there were enemies around. Some deep hatred that the wolf could not place rose up inside of him, and suddenly all he wanted was to end them, to hunt. Hackles rising, it threw its head back and let out a piercing howl. Moments later his challenge was answered, warg cries breaking out from the distance. Jaws watering in anticipation it licked its fangs.

“Thorin, you cannot go out there!” small arms suddenly closed around his body and a weight attached itself to him. The little creature barely weighed a thing. It was a simple matter to dislodge it.

“Thorin, no! Stop!” It sprang out into the bright white of the blizzard, delighting in the sharpness of the air. There were scents all around, and it bounded off in search of the nearest, blood singing at the chance of a fight.

The small, strange creature was forgotten.

Cursing, Bilbo ducked his head out of the cave, eyes straining through the blinding white of the blizzard. Flurries whipped at his face and stuck in his hair, stinging his eyes and freezing the tears of frustration and grief that rolled down his cheeks.

Thorin—his dear, grumpy dwarf, the one he had loved so very much— was gone, possibly forever, trapped within the mind of the wolf. As if that wasn’t enough to terrify him to the point of exhaustion the wolf was gone too. Warg howls rent the air all around, merging with the sharp whistling of the wind screaming through the jagged rocks.

He was alone. So terribly alone. So very cold. He had lost Thorin again. Lost before he had even properly found him. A great sob threatened to tear itself from his chest but he held it back. What good would it do?

Fingers clenching into a shaky fist he sought to control his ragged breathing.

_I told you so._

_See what he has become?_

_He never cared for you_

_No. No. Stop._

Thorin hadn’t been himself. Something had caused him to go off like that. It had to be!

_The dwarf is a greedy creature_

_Now you see his true nature_

_He will only hurt you_

_It is what you deserve, after all_

Bilbo closed his eyes and slumped boneless to the floor of the cave. Flakes of snow caught in his curls and whipped around his prone form, icy wind stealing away whatever warmth was in his small body.

_Think Bilbo, think. Something is wrong._

He took a deep breath, the icy air freezing his lungs and bringing further clarity to his overwhelmed mind.

He would not believe that Thorin hated him. Something had happened. Just like last time, the cursed gold and the siren lure of the Arkenstone had taken Thorin away. His eyes, almost exactly the same as they had been then.

Something that had caused it. Provoked Thorin into attacking Bilbo. But what—

Ripping off his mitts his hand plunged into his pocket, fingers closing around a startlingly warm band of metal. Shaking, he brought it out, and gazed upon the golden ring in his palm.

It was beautiful. It always was beautiful, flawless and simple and so very useful. A treasure to be cherished and held.

It was looking at him. He could feel it, the strange prickle on the back of his head, the slight raising of the hairs on his arm. It had a presence of its own, heavy and consuming.

It was laughing.

_Hello, my halfling._

_What are you going to do now, little thief?_

_Are you going to cast me away?_

The hobbit’s hand shook and his eyes blurred. His ring, his magic ring that had saved his friends time and again. It was wrong. Just like Smaug. Like the Arkenstone. He had felt it before but never truly realized what it was. Or had even refused to think of it.

_You need me, little liar_

_The only reason those dwarves ever cared for you was because of me_

_I made you what you are, burglar_

_Without me you are nothing_

“No.” This cursed ring, both pain and joy, had poisoned his own thoughts and actions. Had turned Thorin against him. Had turned his own mind against himself.

“I am going to save my dwarf,” the hobbit’s voice may have been quiet, but behind it was a core of pure mithril, “and you are going to help me.”

_You need me_

“Thorin needs me. And if to save him I have to use you, than by Yavanna’s grace I will. And once you have served your purpose, by the Valar I will have you gone.”

Stuffing the ring back in his pocket he straightened up, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. He was freezing and utterly exhausted. Each beat of his heart brought a dull ache to his chest. But that wasn’t important right now.

Right now his dwarf was out there in this awful blizzard, possibly trapped within the wolf forever. Erebor was on the verge of either revolt or siege, leaving thousands of lives in danger, along with his dear friends. And a powerful sorcerer sought the throne, seeking domination and war.

He bared his teeth and set out into the harsh white of the blizzard, making for the Sorcerer’s Fortress.

It was time to end this.

~^^^~ 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drama bomb! Please don't kill me for this. I promise it gets better!
> 
> You know, I originally wasn't going to end it like that. That whole thing with Thorin snapping and the ring just sort of happened. That's part of the reason this chapter is so late.
> 
> I love angst, but only if there's fluff and cuddles to make it better at the end. Just a friendly reminder that this will end happily and with so many cuddles and snugglies.
> 
> Next chapter is the first big climax of the story. The final climax is coming later on. Lots of crazy stuff. 
> 
> Btw, I mentioned posting sneak-peaks on my tumblr for you guys, because we all know how frequent I am with updates. So here's my tumblr
> 
> http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/
> 
> I'm trying to add a page just for fanfictions so you don't have to subscribe or flip through my posts to find out if there's been a sneak-peak added. I'm not too great with technology, but I'll figure it out.
> 
> Thanks again everyone for sticking through with this slow-updating fic!


	17. Infultration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all the kudos and comments! It always surprises me to see that this story is still getting attention, even with a horrible 7 month gap since the last update. I've been busy-but I'll go on about that at the end of the chapter, as you poor people have certainly had to wait long enough as it is.

It was massive. He looked up and up and up, and even with his neck craning he could only see the structure disappearing into the white blizzard. Hugging himself he shook his head, trying to get some feeling back into his numb and tingling face. Yavanna’s Gardens it was cold.

There had to be a way in. No stronghold was truly impenetrable. Perhaps that was something he had learned from his travels as well.

The fortress was monolithic in shape, with few smaller towers jutting out of one great tower that made up the core. Covered passageways interconnected the branching towers, creating a mid-air labyrinth suspended around the main tower. It was made from a rough, jagged stone, nearly black in colour. Spikes decorated the many watchtowers placed around the outer wall.

Yup. This most definitely looked like the Fortress of some evil sorcerer.

It was mostly built directly into the mountains, raising above them, but had its base and entrance sunk deep into the bones of the mountain itself.

As he crept his way around the side he saw what could only be the main gate. A mouth, he realized. It was shaped like a giant, hideous gaping mouth. 

Charming. Just charming, really.

But inside that monstrosity was the palantír, and out there somewhere in this freezing blizzard was his dwarf, so—inside this hobbit would go. Dreadful architecture or no.

“Alright burglar,” he muttered to himself. “Let’s see you work.” 

 

Xxx

 

“So this is Laketown.”

“They call it Esgaroth these days, my lady. Laketown usually refers to the settlement destroyed by the dragon.”

“All of this was built after the death of Smaug?”

“It was. What the dragon did not crush either burned or sunk. They’ve rebuilt further down the lake, as there is still much dark magic around the worm’s corpse.”

Arwen followed the red-headed guard captain over to the bridge connecting the town to the mainland.

“It seems the humans have made good use of their share of the gold,” she remarked.

“Ha,” Tauriel said sharply. “Not the old master. He made off with most of it and fled. The greedy coward, he left his own people without much coin at all to rebuild.”

“What happened?” asked Arwen.

“King Bard helped them, and so did the dwarves when they heard what had happened,” replied Tauriel. “After the dragon and the battle, most followed Bard to Dale, to rebuild their Kingdom of old. Though many did choose to remain here. It has a new Master, one much more reasonable thankfully. King Bard supports Esgaroth wholeheartedly, as it provides the lifeblood of wealth in all surrounding Kingdoms.”

“The trade is still going strong, I assume?”

“Very much so. Esgaroth is strategically placed to be the center hub for trade between the three main kingdoms and further lands the river reaches. King Thorin has been making alliances as far east as he can, as well as extending those through the waterway south.”

The two walked along the long wooden bridge, watching the city on the lake grow larger as they approached. There were barges and rafts, watercrafts of all kinds out on the water despite the large chunks of ice floating alongside. Trade was bustling.

Arwen glanced at the looming mountain beyond the city and pursed her lips. “And what do Erebor’s allies think now?”

The guardswoman sent Arwen a grim smile, “The dwarves are divided. Some remain loyal to King Thorin, whereas some believe that his unnatural sickness is a sign that the line of Durin should no longer rule. And even then there is debate over if it should be Dain of the Iron Hills or Vorvik Firebeard put on the throne. Nowhere is this conflict more dire than within Erebor itself. People are afraid.”

“And what of Dale?”

“King Bard fully supports the current rule. As does Esgaroth. If Vorvik Firebeard should be crowned, Erebor would cut itself off from all trade, stopping supplies not only from the mountain but from the other dwarven kingdoms to the east and north.”

“So the humans will support King Thorin?”

“They will. Even if they may whisper of a cursed king, they cannot afford to loose such an influential trade partner.”

They fell silent for a while, until Arwen eventually asked, “What of the third kingdom?”

 

“Of _my_ King, I am sure you’re aware of his stance,” replied Tauriel, sighing.

“Indeed.”

“For all his coldness, Thranduil does want the best for his people. Even he can realize the importance of trade and keeping alliances. The Greenwood isn’t what it used to be, and even if it were, it alone would not give our people the kind of luxuries he would desire for them. My lord was testing your resolve, Evenstar. And that of the line of Durin. You have certainly passed his test.”

“Then he shall find the line of Durin passes as well,” the dark-haired elf stated firmly, raising her head higher.

Tauriel blinked, “You have seen the dwarf King.”

“And why would you think that?”

The guard captain smiled and crossed her hands behind her back, “You are not the only person who has been contacted by the mountain. Nor even the royal family for that matter.”

“Ah yes,” began Arwen, smiling mischievously. “So tell me, is the crown prince really as handsome as they say? Or is it the younger they speak of?”

Tauriel laughed, “Hah. I will have you know both are quite appealing, even if they are little brats most of the time. Though, perhaps I find it refreshing to find a fellow archer in a dwarf. And in such a young spirit.” She grinned slyly, glancing at her companion, “What of your mortal, young Estel. How is he these days?”

“Alright, you’ve made your point,” huffed the elf, her glare quickly turning into a smile. “I too, have a weakness for dark, scruffy mortals. My Estel is well. Stubborn. Probably sulking at home that he could not join me here in my errand.”

Tauriel hummed, side glancing her companion. “It seems a bit strange that the daughter of Lord Elrond should be sent to negotiate on behalf of the King of Erebor.”

“Are you aware of the true nature of the King’s curse?” asked Arwen asked bluntly, regaling the guardswoman.

“I am. I believe you did the right thing in not telling my lord. King Thorin has been greatly humbled from the dwarf he was before the battle. Only fair and just in his rule, and always a sadness and regret that follow him like a cloud,” she frowned, fidgeting with her bow absently. “I would not like to see him come to further harm from Thranduil making fun at his expense. Which he undoubtedly would.”

“Good,” Arwen nodded, a soft smile overtaking her features. “Then I do not mind telling you that I met him in Imladris and heard tell of his troubles there. He travels north and east, seeking to break his curse. I am certainly not alone in an attempt to defend his honour, but we had agreed that Thranduil may only be receptive to a fellow elf, no matter how strained the relations of our realms.”

Tauriel was silent for a time, face pensive as they walked. “I am glad you have offered your support. So far there have been many appeals made by the dwarves to my Lord, both for and against King Thorin’s rule, though until your own he had been prepared to remain idle and watch it all unfold from the safety of his Halls.”

 

They passed through the gate into the city, informing the gate-keepers of their intentions to travel to Dale and to procure a boat. For all that it had been only two years since it’s construction, Esgaroth was bustling.

“I have always wanted to see this settlement,” Arwen said, looking around with great interest.

“And why would that be, Evenstar? Have you a fondness for the smell of rotting wood and fish?” Tauriel teased, smiling.

Arwen laughed, the sound so lovely that several people actually stopped and stared in awe. Tauriel’s pointed glare and casual laying of her hand on the hilt of her long knives quickly put a stop to most of them. “You must admit, it does have a certain charm to it. Something of the sea lingers here. No, I mean that there is no other place where channels of water are used as we would streets.”

“They tend to do a bit of both, to be fair,” replied the guard captain. “Though it is true, that few floating planks of wood can be as good as a path to these folk. Could not the same be said for us, using branches and trees as sure ways of transportation in our own realms?”

“Very much so. But using the lake! I shall very much enjoy our little trip on the lake.”

 

Xxx

 

He had climbed in through the grating covering the river. 

The river birthed from the mountains that the fortress was built around, so much so that it actually ran through the lower parts of it. A good water source, Bilbo supposed. But more importantly, with the river frozen as it was, all it took was a particularity determined hobbit to make the precarious climb up the frozen waterfall, and slip under the small gap made between the iron grating and the frozen solid water. It was a tight fit, but Bilbo was a hobbit. He managed somehow, though not without a good deal of cursing and slipping.

It was risky, as he had no idea where the river would wind, or if there was enough space for him to navigate, but it paid off in the end. The tunnel leveled out into a wide chamber, the river winding away deep into the bowels of the mountain. But he was more interested in the rock platform to his left with the open archway.

A Winding passageway spread out in front of him, sharp and angular, but with none of the finesse of dwarven craftsmanship. He padded along, keeping close to the wall and straining his ears for any sound of movement. So far so good. He traveled this way for a time, felling himself moving upward slightly, and beginning to notice the unsettling sounds that echoed throughout the tunnel.

Finding himself in a wide antechamber his path suddenly sprouted off into different directions. Oh bother. Across from him he could see another passageway he assumed was similar to the one he was currently occupied. Creeping further into the room he could see a harsh looking staircase to his right, winding downward sharply, steps nice and steep to made his toes ache within his boots just from looking at it. To his left was a wider staircase leading upwards, curving slightly to the right as it ascended out of his range of sight.

He shuffled foot from foot distractedly. He needed to keep moving but which way to go?

Up or down? 

He was eventually forced into action as a group of some fearsomely ugly goblins came lumbering down the passage across from him, and if that wasn’t bad enough they had a couple of savage wargs following behind them. Oh good.

An unfortunate truth Bilbo had come to know was that just because the scent of hobbit was _unknown_ , did not make it necessarily _undetectable_. If anything, it almost made one’s hunter even more interested to find out exactly what strange and exciting new scent was. Such had been the case with Smaug, he had found out the hard way. 

Fairly confident that alongside his unknown hobbity smell he also had the scent of cursed dwarf/wolf on him, it was high time to make an exit. Five minutes ago, if at all possible.

Up it was.

Bilbo darted into the chamber, flinching as he was forced to run towards the group of armed goblins and sharply cut to the left, trying to leave as much space between them as possible.

Fleeing up the stairwell as quickly and as quietly as only a hobbit burglar could, his heart pounded as he prayed to Yavanna the wargs would be too blinded by the stench of their masters to notice him.

He just barely managed to hold back a squeak of alarm as snarling erupted from behind him. The yells of the goblins joined in the fray, spurring the panicked hobbit on even faster. Reaching the top of the staircase he dove into the first passageway he saw and took off sharply to the left, rushing past roughly hewn windows that would have made him dizzy had he the time or inclination to look out of them.

Of course Bilbo Baggins had neither. What he did have was his heart trying to pound out of his chest and leather boots that had just discovered they joy of smooth, sleek stone and how much fun it would be to slide across it. They hadn’t thought to consult their wearer on whether or not he thought sliding across the impossibly wide, grand chamber that suddenly opened out of the passageway was his idea of fun.

It wasn’t.

Not at _all_.

The hobbit caught a glimpse of a high vaulted ceiling and blazing torches hanging high above him before he smacked face first into the hard stone floor, feet flying and the air whooshing out of his lungs.

Confound and confusticate these boots!

Hastily getting to his feet, he ignored his newly throbbing head and surely bruised elbow in favour of sliding across the room. It was certainly grander than the others he had seen this far. Hopefully it meant he was getting nearer to his goal.

Thankfully he was not pursued.

In theory, the palantír would be placed in the most secure location within the fortress. That could either be the top of the fortress—far away from the reach of any weapon or approaching army—or the bottom, far below the presumed aggressors. In all likelihood, the Fortress stretched out deep, deep underground, surrounded on all sides by pure, solid rock, sunk right deep in the marrow of the mountains. Bilbo would bet his best acorn buttons that there were tunnels connecting the Fortress to Gundabad, and ran all through the Misty Mountains to Goblin Town and further south, and probably right through the Grey Mountains. That’s certainly what had happened during the Battle of Five Armies. Goblins and orcs from all over had passed undetected until they popped out into the surface, disturbingly close to Erebor.

In any event, Bilbo would rather search the top of the fortress first before venturing down into the depths that lead off to places unmentionable.

He had done quite enough of creeping through creepy, claustrophobic, dank goblin tunnels as it was, thank you.

All he had to do was hope that his luck held out and that he would remain undiscovered by the orcs and wargs and Valar only knew what other wretched things lived in this fortress for a little longer.

 

Xxx

 

_Thorin_

Darkness all around, pressing in on all sides. It was nice, safe. The deeper down he went the less and less it hurt.

It did hurt. There was hurt. But from a distance, a dull, steady thrum that echoed all around and made his chest throb. 

So he went deeper down to shut it out. He did not want to feel that pain anymore.

_Thorin_

There was nothing for him out there. Just that throbbing pain.

_Wake up, Thorin_

He kept going deeper.

He would not wake.

 

Xxx

 

Bilbo slumped down against the wall and sat down heavily on a step. He was bone tired. His legs burned from the constant climbing and his feet simply ached from walking on the hard stone. The boots were making it worse, sometimes causing him to slip on smooth stone, and then chafing horribly against his poor feet. Hobbit feet were resistant, of course. But the tops and sides were still quite tender (where there was no leathery sole) and were completely unused to the feeling of leather rubbing back and forth across them insistently.

He was tempted to take the dratted things off and fuss over his surely swollen and blistered feet, but anything he took off of his person would become visible if he let go of it (this invisible business was surprisingly complicated), and he would rather not risk it. So the dratted boots would have to stay on.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Thorin had made them. While Bilbo was curled up against his side, watching his big hands work with needle and thread.

Oh dear.

Reaching into his pocket he pulled out some cram. He had decided that bringing his pack into this place was not a good idea. The thing was cumbersome and awkward and he could move much faster and quieter without it, which was what he needed now more than ever. So being a practical hobbit he had carried some rations on his person, not knowing how long it would take him to find the palantír in this loathsome—entirely too large and threatening—Fortress.

Frowning, he put his hand back in his pocket.

 _“Ginger?”_ The little creature was still in there, peering up at him with her beady little eyes. Nearly dropping his cram in shock he scooped her up, “Oh, you poor thing. This is no place for you! It’s full of wargs and nasty creatures that would gobble you us as soon as look at you.” Ginger gave a small little squeak and nuzzled her nose into his hand, “It might be warm in there, but I’m afraid I’m not a very safe place at all right now for you,” Bilbo lectured sternly, though he was secretly glad of her company. “Neither is this tower, though. I suppose you’re stuck with me.”

Her little nose wrinkled and she affectionately nipped his finger.

“Let’s hope I can get us both out safely. But you,” he wagged his finger at her, “need to stay quiet and hidden, and if I get caught you are to make away as fast as you can, do you understand?”

She squeaked again. He would have to take that as a yes. “Good.” Nodding, he tucked her gently back in his pocket.

Sighing, he struggled to his feet. 

He had a tower to climb.

 

Xxx

 

_Wake up_

_Wake up, Thorin_

 

The darkness was nice and safe, free of that pain. It has his haven.

But the pain kept following him.

Deeper and deeper he went, and yet it persisted. Along with that voice.

 

_You are needed, Thorin_

 

No one needed him. He was hurt and disappointment, not help. Memories escaped him, but this he knew, as sure as he knew he did not want to leave this place and return to the awful pain of light.

It was dark and warm, safe from the pain. Nice.

He would not wake. Not for any voice.

 

 

_Come on you great furry lug. Up you get!_

 

A sudden jolt of pain echoed around him. That voice. That voice…

 

_I know you enjoy being terribly dramatic and all, but please, now is not a good time._

The pain was worse, much, much worse, but he couldn’t run from it now. If he ran he would loose that voice. And that was unbearable.

_I can’t run around saving great arrogant kings all the time, you know. Sometimes you’ll have to save yourself. And maybe lend a poor hobbit a hand every once in a while?_

Light began to pierce through the cocooning darkness, sending pain stabbing into him. He did not want the pain. He did not want the light. But he could not leave the voice.

_Thorin Oakenshield, you get up this instant! Or else I will never cook for you again!_

Light came pouring in, piercing him from all sides. He flinched away from it, trying to shield himself from the harsh pain that centered in his chest.

_Come on. You are more than this._

He could not fight it. Not now. Not when he finally realized what that pain was. Shame. Guilt. Fear. His hobbit’s wide, terrified eyes flashed through his head and he growled. He was the one who had caused that. It all came back to him then, the curse, the sorcerer, showing up at Bag End, the palantír—

Bilbo

Calling desperately after him as the wolf shrugged him off, charging wildly into the snow.

Bilbo was still out there. In this freezing cold labyrinth of unforgiving rock and ice, with enemies all around, only a little ways away from the sorcerer’s tower. 

Thorin became aware of his body, his paws deep in the snow, fur caked in ice and chest heaving with great breaths of icy air. He took control, wrenched it back from where it had fled in his shame. He had threatened his hobbit, nearly harmed him even when he had sworn never to do so again. And then he had abandoned him to the harsh mountains.

It was time to set aside his shame and guilt. 

For Bilbo’s sake, if for no others.

Bringing his snout high in the air he sought that scent he loved so much. Like warm earth and grass—there. Faint, but he could track it. He let out a fierce howl and took off back down the mountain.

 

Xxx

 

Drums. He could feel them reverberating up through the stone and through the walls. 

Most of the rooms built in the middle of the fortress, the roundest and largest tower, seemed to be great halls. Bilbo quickly decided to keep to the outer passageways and interconnecting towers that ran outside of the central one. It was an easy decision. Whenever he passed by an opening leading back to the main tower he could hear the course racket of orcs and goblins, echoing eerily up the passage and spurring him on away from it. 

They were barracks. The hobbit had cautiously peered around the corner to have a good look at one particularly loud room. The creatures were everywhere. Sitting around (or on) large wooden tables, squabbling amongst themselves, fighting over bits of food. Wargs lay around the edges of the room, a few prowling amongst the tables searching hungrily for bits of food. 

As Bilbo looked on, one particularly large warg reached over and snagged a whole roast from an orc, snarling viciously when the creature cursed and brandished a rusty knife at it. The hobbit ducked back at the sudden cheers and jibes from the others, the vicious cries of the orc and the warg nearly overpowered. Squeezing his eyes shut he took a moment to just breathe, _just breathe_ , cowered up against the edge of the wall and trying to banish the image of soft white fur bloodied and torn, warm blue eyes looking up at him in pain.

The jeers and screams followed him back up the corridor as he crept swiftly away. 

Tugûthul was housing an army in his fortress. 

On the quest Fili and Kili had delighted in telling him blood-raising tales of vicious orcs and goblins, festering deep down under the earth. The poor hobbit had never heard such awful stories and had on more than one occasion been reduced to a skittish, nervous wreck at the end of the telling, much to the glee of the brothers.

The princes had laughed at his expense, teasingly boasting that no foul creature could get the better of a dwarf—but a soft little hobbit they would gobble up in an instant. That was, if Bilbo was lucky.

This had happened near the beginning of their journey, when all of the dwarves had been but imposing strangers, unfamiliar and happy to continue to be unfamiliar with the outsider in their midst. After all, in retrospection Bilbo could admit he had made a somewhat lacking first impression on his companions.

Of course Thorin had put a stop to the tales eventually, but in that way of his that seemed to make it as much Bilbo’s fault as it was the brothers. As time went on and the dwarves began to warm up to their hobbit companion, stories told began to shift from trying to scare, to trying to warn him.

“Goblins don’t give a care for stone work,” said Bofur, twirling his pipe absently. “Not proper work anyhow. They burrow into the earth willy-nilly cutting out awful jagged tunnels. No sense of beauty, aye? Like the worms in your garden do the soil, I’d wager.”

“That’s the thing about goblins,” piped up Kili. ”Because they dig everywhere, they can pop up anywhere. Or everywhere! You could be standing alone on a ledge of rock and think it looks fine, and then suddenly goblins are swarming out of the wall. Hundreds of them. Armed to the teeth and thirsty for blood!”

“Kili, stop,” said Fili, nudging his brother and inclining his head towards the increasingly pale hobbit.

The archer grinned sheepishly at the hobbit, scratching the back of his head. “Sorry Mister Boggins.”

“So you must be vigilant, Bilbo,” Fili said, any trace of humor gone as he gazed seriously at the uncomfortable hobbit. “When there are goblins near. Look for more than just the obvious. You have to see the signs.”

“Your stone sense just may very well save you,” added Bofur, nodding.

“Stone sense?” asked Bilbo, brows drawing together.

“You know, that constant awareness of stone all around you, telling you where things are what’s safe and what isn’t,” said Kili.

“Erm, no. I-no. Don’t think I have one of those.”

“What?” cried Kili. “How do you not have stone sense?! Of course you have stone sense. Everyone does.”

“Bilbo’s a hobbit,” Bofur pointed out helpfully. “They’re different creatures than dwarves are, to be sure.”

“But how do you stand it?” asked Kili, clearly scandalized by the idea and gawking at Bilbo. “Not being able to hear the stone all around, calling you?”

The hobbit cleared his throat self-consciously. “Well, we typically don’t live surrounded by stone,” he said, giving a bit of a laugh. He cocked his head to the side, thoughtfully. “I think I may know what you mean, though. Hobbits have an affinity with the earth. Not so much the deep earth and stone but the soil and growing things. I suppose you could say we have something of a sense for that.”

“You live underground, though,” said Kili. “Don’t you work with stone?” Bilbo shook his head.

“Not very much. Some stone and some brick can be used in our homes, but wood also. Dwellings are rarely deeper than a cellar, and typically don’t go directly down. That’s why we live in hills. We’re not so much under the ground as, well, through it, I suppose. We’d never dig deep enough for bedrock. Ideally, you want to have earth all around any brick or stone as a cushion of sorts.”

 

Ori had plopped down beside them a while ago and was furiously scribbling away in his journal. “Can you feel anything in these mountains?” he asked, eyes bright.

“I can feel the cold seeping into my bones, but that’s about it,” the hobbit said, quirking a smile.

“Drums,” Balin had added sagely from where he was sitting off to the side listening in. “Listen for the drums.”

“Drums?” Bilbo had asked, looking over in confusion.

“Aye lad. That is how Goblins communicate with over long distances. Each beat or combination of beats have their own meanings. We dwarves can feel it all right through the stone, but I think you’d hear it just as clear with those ears of your, laddie.”

“Um, right. So. Drums. I’m to listen to the drums?” The elderly dwarf nodded, “What do they mean?”

“Well for one, it means goblins are nearby, and _you’d_ better not be,” Bofur added, jabbing his pipe in the hobbit’s direction. “Don’t follow the sound to its source. You’re gonna find a whole bunch of goblins all clamoring away at the things. They won’t hesitate to stop in their noise to take a nab at you. When you hear drums underground, it means you need to get out, or stay hidden until the sound stops.”

 

“Most importantly lad,” Balin had said sternly. “You keep close to us and do your utmost to _stay_ there. Goblin tunnels can wind on for miles and miles in all directions, without stone sense you’d be lost. Stay close to a dwarf and they won’t guide you wrong.”

“Aye. And if you do get separated, Mahal forbid,” continued Bofur,“Take the tunnels that go up. Look out for water too, sometimes you can get lucky and have it lead you right out the mountain in a stream. If not, at least you have water.”

Bifur had jumped from where he had been sitting quietly at his cousin’s side and began speaking rapidly in Khuzdul, making fierce hand gestures to accompany his speech. Bofur had translated for his cousin, the axed dwarf explaining how best to survive deep underground and what to do if you got turned around or badly hurt enough your stone sense was confused. The rest of the company shamelessly eavesdropped and chipped in with their comments and suggestions here and there until Bilbo’s head was swimming with the sheer amount of information he was bombarded with.

Of course only a few weeks later a terrified Bilbo had found himself lost and alone in the depths of Goblin Town and tried his best to remember what he’d been taught. When he’d escaped and after the long, tiring climb down the Carrock, Fili and Kili had been frantic to apologize for telling him all those nasty tales, piling on top of him in some kind of guilty dwarf pile. Bilbo had forgiven them, of course, though Thorin had made sure to cuff them both up the backs of their heads for scaring their burglar.

His chest gave a painful lurch. What he wouldn’t do to see his friends again. To see Thorin again. He wondered what they would think of him now, sneaking into some desolate, imperious Fortress, trying to find and destroy a powerful artifact with an army of goblins and wargs just in the other room.

Hopefully he’d be able to tell them all about it some day in person. If they would still want to talk to him after everything.

 

There were drums all right. But how far down they went Bilbo could not tell. One set of drumming came from what he assumed was the halfway point on the Fortress (he hoped it was, his legs and feet would not stand for another few hours of climbing—they literally would not stand for it) and if he listened he could just barely make out another set further down. 

 

XXX

 

The wind whipped at him

It led back to the cave. Thank the maker! Bilbo was still there.

As soon as he nosed his way into their shelter, Thorin immediately knew something was wrong.

The hobbit’s sent was in the cave, and he could see it coming off of their packs still left against the wall. But the scent did not stop in the cave. No small, fussy and irresistibly cuddly hobbit was in sight. He nosed the ground, whining in concern and fear, and sniffing over his pack and Bilbo’s. Why was Bilbo’s pack here? Along with all of their furs and blankets. Catching a flash of green, Thorin saw something half buried under the snow. Dashing over, he gingerly unburied it.

A little green mitten. Bilbo’s mitten. He buried his nose in it, whining piteously in want and longing. Filling his lungs with that scent he made his was to the edge of the cave and glared out into the storm.

 

The scent had moved away. Out of the cave and towards the Fortress

xxx 

There it was. The palantír. Or at least, what he assumed to be the palantír. It was a globe of swirling glass placed on a stand atop a pedestal. 

It didn’t seem to be guarded. And that’s what had the hobbit worrying his lip. If this thing really was the sorcerer’s spirit-vessel it would be heavily guarded. Yes it was at the top of a ridiculously tall fortress housing an army, but the room itself was bare. Except for a few of those creepy statue things.

Tugûthul was either overly confident that no one could get through the entire fortress undetected and felt the guards unnecessary—or a more troubling thought, he was expecting someone to walk right up to the seemingly unguarded orb and spring whatever awful trap must surely be in wait.

His fingers twitched.

It could also simply not be the palantír. That was a concern. Bilbo shifted his weight slightly and worried his lip, casting another nervous glance into the room, half expecting a whole pack of goblins to suddenly pour out of the wall. There was a tangible feeling of power cutting through the air, like how it felt to stand on top of the hill when the sky was dark and heavy with clouds and the wind picked up, the distant roll of thunder coming closer and closer. Looking back at the orb the hobbit could feel the hairs on his arms stand up. It was as if the thing was watching him.

Bilbo was willing to bet his best tomatoes that it was truly the palantir, or at least some equally powerful and worrisome artifact no doubt.

He should leave, he should run away from this room and this thing, escape the tower and the Fortress and run right back to his hobbit hole. That was the right and sensible thing to do. 

Breathing out slowly through his nose, Bilbo crept as silently and as carefully as he could into the room and across the cold, marble floor, taking extra care with his boots. 

Of course, Bilbo Baggins had given up being sensible or respectable long ago. Such things had been left behind when he had gone charging off after a group of dwarves and yelling about adventures and seemed to have stayed away even after his return. 

His fingers just barely brushed the surface when he was suddenly slammed into the floor, pain flaring up his side and head.

Looking up he saw in a flash of pain and fear a figure towering over him. Dark robes swirling Bilbo recognized it. The hunter.

Xxx

 

“This is ridiculous,” Bifur watched his cousin plop down on the heaps of rubble, shovel held across his knees. “Those bloody creepers keep bringin’ down the tunnels and the bloody council says we should go and dig it all up again. Ha! I’d like ta see the likes of those prissy lords down here, with their ceremonial garb and fancy jewelry clearin’ all this away.”

The dwarf sat down besides his cousin, making a companionable grunt. “We should not be clearing it away at all,” he muttered in khuzdul.

“Exactly!” Cried Bofur. “Those things keep crawling out of the deep tunnels way down in the old mines, this collapse will hold them back. But nooo, we’ve gotta go and dig it all up again and just make their job that much easier.”

“And Tugûthul’s.”

“Damn that sorcerer. This is his doing, bringin’ these dead creatures back to life. Our grandmother told us, she did, those creepers were all wiped out years ago under old Thror’s reign. A right menace they were, too, that’s why they had to be exterminated.”

“They could have come back when the mountain was dormant under Smaug,” Bifur suggested without any great conviction.

“Even then, what they’re doin’ now is just unnatural,” Bofur glared deeper into the tunnel, as if daring the creatures to make an appearance. “Attackin’ the surface. They hate light and noise. They shy away from it when they can, only attackin’ when we’re in their territory. It’d be one thing if they were only gettin’ us down in the mines shovelin’ and singin’, but to swarm right up to the higher levels—that’s unnatural.”

Bifur grunted, and recited sarcastically “The mountain demands a new ruler.” Bofur punched him in the arm as his cousin laughed.

“Oh, if I have ta hear that Erebor’s rejected the line of Durin one more time I’ll eat me pipe. Of _course_ she’s upset! Anyone with even a lousy stone sense could tell you that! But it’s certainly not at the line of Durin. After all, Thorin freed her from the dragon.”

“People are scared,” Bifur said with a sigh. “The mountain is full of unrest and their King is held up with some unknown, contagious disease, unseen by any for months.”

“And in comes this sorcerer.” The two sat moodily for a while, until Bofur lugged himself to his feet with a dramatic sigh. “Alright Bif, back to work I guess. Can’t have the tunnel in prevent those loverly creepers from wreckin’ havoc, now can we?”

“Maybe we can fake injury?” Bifur grumbled. 

The hatted dwarf laughed, “Aye, that’s alright for you. But me, I’m head o’ the Eastern Mines. I get responsibilities and privileges, see? Like digging up all this. Besides, if it weren’t us, some other poor soul would be stuck down here with the creepers.”

 

Bifur held up his hand, signaling for silence. There were footsteps coming towards them from down the tunnel. Bofur squinted, whistling lowly when he made out the figure. “Well, speak of a dragon and one will appear, looks like we’re havin’ us an inspection by the old sorcerer himself.”

 

“Miners,” that voice had always struck Bifur as off somehow, too deep and too disembodied. He had learned it best to trust his instincts over the years and especially after he took the axe he found his intuition much sharpened. The sorcerer was alone, dressed in his usual heavy, ornate robes and carrying his staff. His expression was blank as he approached, reminding Bifur of the dead gaze of the fire lizards found deep down near vein of magma. “Have you progressed with the tunnel yet?”

Bofur swept his hat right off and made a deep bow, “Why, Lord Tugûthul himself, well bless me! Can ye believe it, Bif? His high and mighty-self came all the way down here just to check on us lowly miners. Awful decent of you, yer sorcerery, awful decent, indeed. Aww, shucks, we’re just tickled!”

The sorcerer did not seem much impressed by Bofur’s display, his already thin and pale face souring further at the relentless enthusiasm. The man swept past the two dwarves, making for the collapsed rubble that they had been chipping away at, trying to clear the tunnel.

“P’raps we could give you a tour?” asked Bofur companionably, grinning at the sorcerer’s almost disgusted glare.

“This should not be taking so long,” came the voice, even more unnerving than usual given what the company had heard about the man. “I thought dwarves were supposed to excel at mining. Why have you not used powder to clear a path?”

“It’s taken too much damage,” said Bifur, “Would send the whole thing down on us, maybe take out the upper levels too.” The man’s glare only increased, and Bofur silently grinned at his lack of understanding of khuzdul. Thank the maker he hadn’t been taught it by Firebeard.

“Aye, Bif’s right,” he said, deciding to translate. “If you used powder here it could take out the whole tunnel, maybe the ones above too.” The man looked deeply unhappy and pressed a hand against the rubble, muttering something underneath his breath.

 

“Tugûthul.” 

The sorcerer stiffened at the new voice, and as they looked back at the entrance of the tunnel they could see Gandalf walking towards them. The two dwarves exchanged excited glances behind the man’s back. 

_"Now this I want to see!"_ Bifur signed in iglishmek.

 _"Somebody's gonna get buuuusted!"_ Bofur signed back gleefully.

The wizard spared the dwarves a quick glance, giving them a nod, before focusing his attention on the man, face stern. “I have been meaning to speak with you since my arrival here, but you are a surprisingly hard man to find.” The sorcerer’s eyes gleamed when they landed on the wizard and he straightened up to his full impressive height, grasping his staff.

“I do not believe we have met. You are the one called Gandalf, I presume? The _wizard_.”

“Indeed,” replied Gandalf, mildly, giving the man a once over which seemed to leave him lacking. “And you are a sorcerer out of the north. What brings such a man as yourself to Erebor, if I may ask?”

“I am here to offer my services to the greatest Kingdom in all of the world,” Tugûthul said proudly, raising his head. Tall he may be, but so was Gandalf. And Gandalf had a hat, so bonus points for him, Bofur decided, grinning.

“Strange then, that just after your arrival the King should fall ill and dark creatures begin to attack the surface.”

“The mountain herself has rejected her ruler, I only seek to keep her appeased.”

“Ah. So the mountain has waited two whole years before deciding that Thorin Oakenshield was not a suitable king?”

“She has told me I can help her. She was waiting until someone had the power to free her from the line of Durin.”

“And you are here to ensure that Lord Firebeard takes his rightful place on the throne.”

“As the mountain commands me.”

“Tell me, does the mountain love her people?” Asked Gandalf, watching the other man closely.

“Very much, she only seeks to protect them from a corrupt ruler,” replied the sorcerer.

“That seems a bit odd that she sends these creepers up to attack her beloved people. Especially as only those in the lower circles are in any danger.” The man’s nostril’s flared for a moment before he regained his calm, and bowed his head mockingly.

“The mountain has no great control over them. She can dispatch them, but nothing more.”

The old man raised one of his enviously bushy eyebrows. “The same mountain that has no control over the actions of creepers and yet still manages to sicken the King, and _only_ the King?”

Bifur nudged his cousin, the two dwarves silently fist-pumping.

“I cannot speak directly for the mountain—“

“Yet it seems that is exactly what you are doing, putting Firebeard on the throne in her name.”

“She is a mysterious being, wizard, older than you or I.”

“Then how is it that despite her mystery you can understand and interpret her feelings? How is it that a sorcerer form the north knows more about Erebor than the very dwarves that she allowed to shape and form her?”

“She has chosen me to be her mouthpiece. Whether you can believe it or not, wizard, she has chosen _me_ over one of your kind. Perhaps you should wait until you have put aside your jealousy before challenging my authority.”

 

“Bofur! Creepers! Another outbreak further down. They’re tunneling around the rubble.” Bofur cursed and grabbed up his mattock.

“There’s another outbreak, your magicalnesses! They’re digging their own tunnel. Come on, Bif!”

“Wait,” he stopped at the command, looking at Gandalf in confusion. “We have no need for your selfless bravery today, Bofur. We have the Champion of the Mountain here himself, who can surely defend against these foul creatures.”

“Aye,” Bofur said slowly, “That we do. Come on then, yer sorcery. We have good dwarves that need saving.”

“Surely the wizard can handle such matters on his own?”

“But the mountain’s mouthpiece I am not. Surely you can reason with her to stop this attack on innocent miners? Or at the very least to halt the flow of monsters.”

“That’s what you’re here for in the first place, isn’t it?” asked Bofur, grinning. “As soon as you were taken out of prison the attacks stopped, so let’s go!”

 

xxx

 

When his suspicions were confirmed that his hobbit had indeed snuck right into the Fortress itself, Thorin let out a snarl. The dear scent lead up the waterfall and through the tiny grating. A wolf of his size was simply too large to fit.

So it was through the front gate that the dwarf-turned-wolf went. Taking powerful, purposeful strides he easily turned his fear for his hobbit into anger, letting it take him over.

The Fortress was packed with wargs and all manner of foul creatures. He could smell them. So it was a simple matter of thinking of Bilbo in the middle of all of it all that had him snarling and charging right through the front gates, uncaring of being challenged. Anything that stood between himself and his hobbit would face his fangs and claws. As it was, orc and wargs he passed drew back, assuming he was one of theirs and unwilling to challenge a near foaming wolf.

But all Thorin could think of, all he could feel or smell was his hobbit. Somewhere, somewhere in this hard, towering Fortress was Bilbo, surrounded by orcs and wargs and all manor of evil creatures. He would be damned if he couldn’t’ find him and keep him safe.

He had found the scent again, following it swiftly up and up, through the winding tunnels and passageways, getting stronger the further he went.

 

Xxx

 

Bilbo tried to scramble to his feet, but was stopped when the hunter’s armored hand closed around his throat. 

“Little rat.” It hissed. It lifted him by his throat and slammed him down against a table, holding him there. He struggled but it was no use. The hunter easily had him pinned. It threw back its head and let out a piercing cry, the sound reverberating oppressively around the chamber.

It was calling its master.

Tugûthul

 

Xxx

 

They heard the creepers long before they saw them, sharp, hard limbs scraping against the tunnel walls shrilly as they crawled and swarmed towards them. “Here they come!” yelled Bofur. 

“Stand back!” commanded Gandalf, standing before both dwarves. The wizard fixed Tugûthul with a hard glare, daring him to do nothing. The man’s eyes went dark with hatred before he too stepped up, joining Gandalf before the swarm of creatures.

 

The first wave of the creatures crested the turn of the tunnel, coming suddenly into view. Beady eyes glowing dully, sparks flew through the air as their legs struck against the walls and ceiling and floor, bodies making an awful noise as they scraped their way through.

Only to be blown back, a sudden blast of white light exploding outwards from Gandalf’s staff. The two dwarves widened their stances, Bofur’s hand coming up to reflectively hold on to his hat at the sheer force of the onslaught. 

Then Tugûthul joined in. his staff blazed a sickly green, casting horrible shadows all over the tunnel. The creepers writhed and shrieked under the combined onslaught, crawling back into the walls or simply curling up, legs jerking uncontrollably. 

The green glow abruptly cut off, and the sorcerer suddenly collapsed on himself like a doll with its strings cut. Gandalf staggered for only a moment before he adjusted to the sudden loss of power, immediately refocusing his energies and sending a huge ball of light out. It smashed into the remaining creepers, dissolving them on impact. The wizard lowered his staff slowly, turning to face his friends.

The sorcerer was laying eerily still on the floor, completely lifeless.

“What happened!?” asked Bofur, the two dwarves completely unscathed from the fight. The wizard made his

“Is he dead?” asked Bifur hopefully as the wizard frowned down at the other man “Did you kill him?”

“Aww, please say he’s dead,” Bofur added. Gandalf prodded the man with his staff. He didn’t even twitch. “He looks about as dead a body I’ve ever seen.” 

 

“The sorcerer is gone,” Gandlaf said with a sigh.

“You mean ‘gone’ as in dead, right?”

“Not precisely,” the wizard added, tiredly getting to his feet. “This man has been dead for a very long time.” Bifur stopped nudging the body and looked up to meet his cousin’s equally confused expression. 

“Aye?” Bofur, scratched his head. “So we’ve been taking orders from corpse? Who’s suddenly decided to stay good and properly dead…?” 

The wizard gave the body a great nudge with his staff, causing it to flop on its side like a doll. “ _This_ is not Tugûthul. Not anymore. This body here was likely only that, just a body, a vessel you could say.” His eyes were hard as he stared down at the lifeless body.

“Oi! You mean all that stuff about him having a detachable spirit stuff?”

“The same. It would appear that our sorcerer has abandoned this body. For now.”

“We could bury him anyway?” Bifur suggested, nudging the body hopefully with his spear.”

“The sorcerer is still alive. This man, is quite dead indeed.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” asked Bofur, not liking the general grimness that hung around the wizard.

“It means that something, or someone has called him away. Urgently, even, for him to leave in the middle of a fight. And especially in front of others who have cause to mistrust him.”

“Bilbo! Thorin!” exclaimed Bifur, eyes widening. “You don’t think…” Gandalf gave a tired sigh and shook his head.

“That remains to be seen. We’ll have to bring the body back out with us and watch it carefully. If Tugûthul returns, he will need this to move around in.”

“So shouldn’t we just hide the bloody thing?” asked Bofur, hands clenched at the thought of two of his dearest friends facing off against the sorcerer. “Then he can’t run around anymore.”

“This sorcerer can posses all manor of things, objects, or bodies. If this body is no longer available, who knows what he will do to procure another one? At least like this we can keep an eye on him. If everything has gone well, he may have lost the palantír. He’ll be desperate. His spirit can only last so long inside a body like this before it begins to fall apart. If he has no place to return to, we can trap him. We just have to hope that our friends have succeeded.”

 

xxx

 

The orb lit up with a sudden intensity, light flooding the room and casting odd distorted shadows everywhere. The shadows swarmed together and formed a figure.

 

“So. Little Halfling,” there was something deeply _wrong_ about that voice, something inhuman. “Bilbo, isn’t it? You think you can defy me? Stand in my way?”

He watched in horror as the shadow approached one of the statutes in the room and melted into it, the statue twisting and shuddering until it stopped. Straightening up, the eyes glowed a strange green, a sudden presence and life to the fearsome statue that had been lifeless only moments before. Tugûthul. The soccer was here. In the body of a stone guard, fearsome armour its new body.

Bilbo tried to jerk backwards, but the hunter held him firmly in place, the statue advancing easily. It leered down at him, power radiating off of its body. Bilbo felt his hair all raise on end, but he grit his teeth. 

“You have been helping the dwarf.”

This was the sorcerer, if not in body than in spirit that had cursed _Thorin,_ his Thorin. Driven him from his hard earned home, had him hunted, was planning war or a revolution—

He spat at the sorcerer, glaring viciously at the green blazing eyes.

“And you are a coward! You wouldn’t have stood a chance against Thorin in your own body, so you cursed him

 

The eyes flickered, rage flaring them out like a torch, and it took everything Bilbo had not to flinch back even as he squinted against the glare.

“Insolent fool. Do you not know what I am? The most powerful being in all of Arda is before you! All shall cower before—“ he cut himself off abruptly. The eyes began to glow with a strange intensity. “You have something.”

“Bilbo’s heart stopped and he just barely held himself back from reaching for his pocket.

“Something dark… _powerful_.”

“No!” the hobbit struggled wildly. He may be unsure of exactly what the ring in his pocket could do, but he knew it was evil, and if this sorcerer wanted it so badly it had to stay away. But it was no use. The hunter had him easily pinned and some dark magic was holding him down, no matter how he struggled he could not stop the sorcerer from reaching with its armored hands into his pocket to—

“Arrgh!” there was a flash of brown. Ginger.

The little hamster jumped out at the monstrous hand, landing on the table. The ring clenched in her teeth.

“Stop it!” Commanded the sorcerer, the hunter immediately going after the small animal. The little creature jumped and scrambled away, nimbly dodging around the hunter’s attacks and grabs and disappearing down a crack in the wall, tail trailing behind it. The hobbit let out a gasp, body going limp with relief. The sorcerer whirled on him, eyes flaring a dangerous green from within the animated armor. Bilbo grunted as the hunter returned, pining his shoulders to the table with an iron grip.

 

“I shall enjoy cursing you,” the sorcerer said lowly, voice dangerous. “It will be most amusing to see what my magic can make of you. Maybe a rat? A slobbering dog? Maybe I’ll turn you out into the wilds and have you hunted for sport? Or perhaps I’ll keep you here, as amusement for my army. You can watch the dwarf scum die yourself. Oh yes, I know he’s nearby,” he mocked, enjoying how the hobbit’s eyes widened. “I can smell his scent on you. Still fresh. I’m surprised he’s made it this far, but it doesn’t matter. He’s long gone by now, and even if you did find him there wouldn’t be anything left of the dwarf he once was.”

“You will not touch him!” Bilbo hissed, glaring, renewing his struggling. The hunter had his arms and shoulders trapped, and though the sorcerer omitted a dark magic holding Bilbo down, he manage to kick out, unfortunately missing the possessed stone armour that was currently Tugûthul. The animated statue seemed to smirk.

“Yes. I think I will enjoy this.” A sickly green light began to fill the room, focusing in the palm of the sorcerer’s hand and slithering around the hobbit. It felt thick and heavy and wrong, prickling his skin and turning his stomach.

“I curse you, Bilbo of the Shire,” began Tugûthul, voice low and powerful, magic laying thickly over the hobbit. “So that all will see your guilt, your treachery laid bare for all to see.” Bilbo grit his teeth as his limbs began to feel heavy and ache, barely biting back a whimper.

The sorcerer leant down so the shell of armour was nearly touching his face, green eyes glaring intensely. “Let’s see that guilt consume you, Halfling. You stole the Arkenstone. You betrayed your friends, and-oh, even someone you _love,_ ” tears blurred his vision, his heart stuttering painfully to have his deepest misgivings said aloud. “How pathetic you must be to chase after him even when you know no one could ever forgive you for such a thing. You have no friends, no family, no one who cares for you at all. This will be an improvement, yes, indeed. Perhaps I shall even keep you as my pet?”

 

It hurt, a burning, freezing bearing down on his heart. It was everything he had though himself, everything his mind had been telling him for two whole miserable years—since he had ever picked up that cursed Arkenstone, even. A constant ache in his chest, always there in the back of his mind, waiting to strike as soon as the hobbit let his guard down for even a moment. 

Bilbo bit his lip, stopping a sob from welling up and glaring defiantly at the sorcerer.  
“No. This is _not_ about me. My feelings do not matter. I am stronger than that! As long as my dwarf needs me I will stand for him. I may have betrayed him, I may have done something unforgivable, but I will do whatever I have to help him, and you cannot stop me!”

“How can you really believe that, faithless creature you are,” hissed the sorcerer. “Turning on your own friends, throwing the love he gave you back in his face. Disgusting.”

‘I am _not_ my guilt,” said Bilbo, controlling his breathing, even though his heart was pounding uncontrollably. This had to end. “I have wronged, but I can still move foreword. I can still heal. It will not consume me. Getting myself cursed won’t help anything. Maybe it may always be a part of me, maybe I’ll never truly forgive myself. But I will not be defined by it. I will work to right my mistakes. I am _not._ My. Guilt.”

Tuguthul staggered back, the green glow retreating and letting Bilbo _breathe_ , sagging tiredly from fighting off the onslaught. 

“I may not be able to curse you,” said the sorcerer, voice shaking with fury. “But I assure you I am much more creative than that” he advanced again on the hobbit, Bilbo shrinking back from the blade suddenly in his hand. “We’re going to have fun with you, little ratling.”

It was at that moment that a great wolf with piercing blue eyes crested the stairs and bounded into the room, barely stopping to take in the scene before giving a might roar and charging. 

The sorcerer only had time to begin to turn his head when he was violently sent to the floor in a flash of snarling fur and teeth and claws and pure _fury_. The sight of Bilbo, so small and helpless, pinned under two great hulking beings was too much for Thorin, and the next thing he knew his fangs were crunching down on hard metal, claws shredding the armor apart.

Bilbo gasped, taking in the sight of the wolf—Thorin. Or at least he hoped Thorin was still in there—before using the hunter’s momentary distracting to kick out with his sturdy hobbit feet, catching it right in the chest. The thing stumbled back, his tight grip on Bilbo breaking, allowing the hobbit to roll off the table, drawing sting in one smooth move.

“Thorin! The palantír!” Bilbo yelled, hoping his dwarf could still understand him. It did not matter how ferociously they thought, if the palantír was not destroyed, the sorcerer could simply posses vessel after vessel. His ears twitched, and it was only instinct that had Bilbo jumping back in time to avoid the wicked swing of the hunter’s blade from taking his head, instead only leaving a shallow cut across his cheek. Giving a cry, he darted around the vertical blow and struck a quick jab to its side. The hunter roared, but Bilbo was already moving around it, eyes fixed on the glowing orb. He lunged at it, trying to reach it before—

Bilbo smashed into the floor, the unforgiving edges of the hunter’s armor digging into his side painfully from where it was crushing him into the floor. Winded, he struggled to get the hunter off, but the thing simply twisted around, using its sufficient weight to keep him pinned underneath it. The sudden glint of bright metal was the only warning he had before the wicked blade was striking down, he barely managed to move his head to the side to avoid the blow, torso and arms trapped. Whipping his head back up, he looked into the dark mass where the hunter’s face should have been, chest heaving as it raised its weapon again, more slowly this time. 

“Nowhere to run, little rodent,” it hissed at him, reaching down to grab a handful of the hobbit’s curls. Bilbo grunted, kicking wildly with his legs to try and dislodge the thing, gritting his teeth against the pain of the large gauntlet-covered hand in his hair, holding his head down against the hard, cold marble floor of the chamber. A choked cry escaped him as he felt the cold tip of the wickedly sharp blade press against his throat.

And then Thorin was there, knocking the hunter clear off of Bilbo and onto the floor, snarling viscously. It barely had time to raise its blade before the great wolf’s mouth opened incredibly wide, clamping its mighty jaws down into the dark, gaping face of the hunter. The figure shuddered and twisted, letting out a horrible scream, but Thorin held fast and with a growl gave an almighty crunch, sending the hunter lifeless to the floor, only empty armor and robes scattered on the cold marble.

Bilbo struggled to his feet, yelling “Thorin! The palantír!” for Tugûthul had recovered from Thorin’s onslaught. Scratched and dented, the living armour shook with rage, dark magic pulsing around his form. With one great leap, the wolf cleared the room and knocked down the pedestal, sending the glowing orb _thunking_ down to the floor and rolling—towards the sorcerer. The hobbit lunged for it, barely avoiding a blow from the great sword Tugûthul had hefted and swung effortlessly, leaving a great dent in the floor where he had been just a moment ago. He reached out, snatching up the glowing orb and nearly crying out with how hot it was, just barely resisting the urge to drop it. The air hummed with the sound of a swinging blade. Bilbo rolled away desperately, squeezing his eyes shut as he kept arms around the orb, hoping he was fast enough to escape the—

_Clang_

Opening his eyes, Bilbo looked up. He was met with a very familiar figure standing in front of him, arms raised to block the blow with the hunter’s discarded blade. Thorin. Bilbo’s heart gave a lurch at the dear sight of him in his true dwarf. _All_ of his form. Because of course—the hobbit thought, cheeks blushing furiously—if this ridiculous dwarf was going to save someone he’d do it n the most overdramatic way possible. While being completely nude. And while the view was spectacular from this angle, unfortunately this was neither the time nor the place to appreciate it.

“Thorin! Quick!” he yelled, getting the dwarf’s attention. He _thunked_ the palantír down on the ground, holding it steady as Thorin rushed over. He crouched down, wasting what little time they had before Tugûthul was back on his feet by giving Bilbo one of those incredibly intimate and soul searching looks, eyes full of some dangerous emotion that tugged at the hobbit’s heart-

“Now, you great lug!” cried Bilbo, spotting the hulking armour climbing back to its feet, hefting its massive blade. Thorin grabbed his weapon with both hands and plunged it down, striking the orb dead on, Bilbo’s hands and knees holding it in place so it could only accept what it was dealt. Everything seemed to freeze, time completely stopped in its tracks for one impossibly long moment at the sound of the impact, a low, deep chord that reverberated right through his bones. And then everything exploded in a flash of green, sending them both flying.

A great scream rent the air, and as the hobbit blinked rapidly to clear his vision, he could just make out the shape of the sorcerer. The figure was twisting and thrashing, the great suit of armour convulsing wildly on the floor.

“Bilbo,” said a low voice next to him. He turned and found Thorin looking down at him, eyes soft and so full of love, holding out his hand. Bilbo swallowed and took it, allowing the dwarf to heft him to his feet. The sorcerer was still convulsing madly, a high pitched whine ringing throughout the chamber, steadily getting louder and louder. They shared a quick look—later, they would talk later.

“We have to get out of here,” said Thorin, making to sheathe his sword and finding, well, finding a complete lack of any clothing at all on his person. Bilbo groaned and grabbed him by the arm, tugging him towards the door.

“You are utterly ridiculous, you know that?” said Bilbo, huffing in fond exasperation. Thorin just grinned at him. 

“This should be faster,” the dwarf said, pulling out of the hobbit’s grip.

“What should be—Thorin!” For the dwarf had suddenly dropped to the ground, limbs stretching, fur sprouting—

The wolf. Thorin was the wolf again. And had done so very obviously of his own command. Bilbo stared flabbergasted, mouth opening and closing a couple of times helplessly. The great best lumbered up to him, nuzzling his midsection happily and whining, tail wagging.

“Ridiculous,” the hobbit managed, stroking the fluffy head automatically. “Completely ridiculous.”

A great, deep noise sounded, reverberating all through the chamber and the whole tower. The remaining statues along the sides of the room began to glow, shaking into movement. “Run!” Bilbo cried, scrambling onto the wolf’s back and holding on for dear life.

They may have destroyed the palantír, but the sorcerer himself was far from dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, that wasn't such bad cliff hanger as it was last time, right??
> 
> Please let me know if anything comes across as confusing. I'm finishing this up at about 5:20am over here, I can't account for how coherent I am, but I don't want to make you all wait any longer.
> 
> I've been focusing on my two reverse bang fics, but this is just pathetic. Seven months with no new chapter?! *facepalm* It's **not** a lack of interest, just a lack of time, writer's block, and me being a slow writer.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all so much for sticking around. I've had so may lovely reviews, it's just staggering! Thank you all so much.
> 
>  **NOTE:** Now with ridiculously fluffy fanart by Rapsodia!! Go look at it!! It's too cute!  
>  http://srapsodia.tumblr.com/post/114693007454


	18. Rock and Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Thorin flee the Fortress, but are pursued. Meanwhile in Erebor, two elves finally arrive and means of defense are discussed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone remember when I used to update about once a month? Me neither. *facepalm*
> 
>  **Warnings:** near-drowning

Thorin flew down the passageway, paws barely touching the floor as he ran. Bilbo clung on to his back tightly, howls and shrieks echoing all around them as the Fortress came alive with the sorcerer’s rage, the very stones seeming to shake in its wake. 

 

The passage spiraled down, windows flashing by with the light of the fierce storm still waging outside. Up ahead a group of goblins burst into the passageway, spotting the approaching pair and readying their weapons.

“Thorin,” Bilbo hissed, gripping the wolf’s fur in alarm. Thorin gave a great leap, back legs bounding off the stairs and using the decline to soar right over the heads of the vile creatures, landing graceful and continuing his steady sprint as if nothing had happened. Willing his stomach back into his body, Bilbo spun around to see the goblins shrieking in rage and charging after them. But even their dreadful sound was soon lost to the rush of movement and drums all around, all blurring together as they fled further and further down the massive Fortress.

 

Charging suddenly into a large circular chamber, Thorin quickly stopped by digging his claws into floor, making an awful piercing noise against the smooth marble that nearly drowned out the frantic drumming and shouts from all around.

“Down, keep going down, and inwards,” Bilbo gasped, steadying himself atop his furry perch. Thorin raised his muzzle and jerked his head to the left, ears flattening and nostrils flaring. “We need to make sure we pick the right direction or else we may have to double back,” the hobbit continued nervously. To his horror, he realized that there were statues lining the walls. Statues that were beginning to glow and clumsily jerk themselves into movement, glowing eyes staring daggers at the two in the middle of the room. “Never mind!” shrieked Bilbo, squeezing his legs around Thorin to urge him onward, “Just go! _Go!”_

 

Thankfully, Thorin seemed to have made up his mind about which way smelled the best and lunged into action with a growl, snapping at one of the hunters that got too close and darting away down the passage, Bilbo swinging his sword to ward off a blow from their other side.

 

How far down this awful structure were they were, Bilbo had no idea. It had taken him hours and hours to get to the top, but a wolf was much faster than a hobbit trying to be small and quiet and unsure of his direction. 

Quiet had been kicked out the window, right along with any kind of stealth or discretion. The frantic descent had come with the steady pounding of Thorin’s paws against the stone floor, and holding on for dear life as goblins and wargs and all manner of unholy things flew by in one terrifying blur of danger and disorientation.

 

And through it all the drums pounded out through the stone and the fortress shook with an inhuman fury.

“Wait! Wait!” Bilbo hissed, suddenly recognizing where they were and tugging on the fur under his clenched fingers. “Go left here!” Thorin let out a half whine half snarl before throwing himself down the left passage and headfirst into—the mess hall. _Perfect_ , thought the hobbit. Yes, it was a bit of a risk, but from what he had learned of the layout the middle of the Fortress housed the army, and while being the most dangerous part it would also connect to a quick and easy route out of the fortress in case of a fight. At least, that was what Bilbo had figured. And what he had gambled on was that instead of it being full of angry goblins it would be nearly empty with the intruder alert being sounded.

 

Which it was. More or less. Except for a few wargs. And a few goblins. Oh, and a troll. Make that two trolls. But otherwise it was completely empty really, no fuss at all.

 

“The archway! On the far side!” Bilbo yelled out over the sudden howls and commotion their grand entrance had prompted. Thorin leapt up onto one of the massive tables, knocking over bowls and tankards as he snarled and ran. Bilbo jerked backwards and barely avoided a knife hurled at his head, knees gripping the wolf under him desperately. A deep growl from behind alerted the hobbit to the four wargs snapping at Thorin’s heels as they wove through the room. Bilbo slashed backwards with sting as much as he dared, not wanting to risk becoming dislodged and clung tighter to the fur as Thorin leapt again, landing atop another table and bounding right for the next, cutting a path through to the door.

_Boom!_

 

Down came the great club of one of the trolls, smashing the table Thorin had just leapt from and sending the splintered remains of the wood flying everywhere. The force of the impact jarred the hobbit’s bones, causing him to grit his teeth and duck his head, trying to make as small a target as possible for the massive thing. Again and again came the clubs, but Thorin was faster, dodging around flying debris and the wargs, who thankfully were hindered by the troll rampage.

They were almost at the door when a statue surged to life from beside the archway and lunged at them, wicked spear slashing downwards at them.

 

But Bilbo was ready, deflecting the blow with a clang and using Thorin’s momentum to push back and against the creature. It stumbled backwards and raised its weapon—but its prey was already past, speeding down and down through the stone hallways.

Everything turned into one huge exhilarating and deadly blur, goblins and stone walls and imposing statues all flashing by, Bilbo’s fingers fisted desperately in the white fur, Thorin running tirelessly beneath him. He had to fight the urge to duck his head down and close his eyes, for as much as he would like to hide from their predicament it would do no good after all. They were both in this mess and by the gardens Bilbo would see to it that they’d both get out if it was the last thing he did.

 

Thorin hit the ground floor at a dead run, the entrance hall opening wide before them, a vicious hoard of enemies fast on their heels. There was the exit! The huge, spiked gate stared mockingly at them, shut closed and bolted and guarded by a dozen goblins. There was nowhere to run.

 

Pushing back the blinding panic that was threatening to overwhelm him, Bilbo looked around frantically, searching for something, anything to—

There! Sharp eyes latched onto the pulley system hanging just over the gate, no doubt keeping it closed shut.

 

“Keep going! I’ll handle the gate!” Bilbo said, steeling himself. 

 

Snarling, Thorin kept on, hackles rising and fangs bared, steps never faltering as he lowered his head and made straight for the guard. He made a fearsome sight, a massive white and grey wolf, eyes blazing and a mouth full of snarling, razor-sharp teeth, uncaring of the hoard of enemies laid before him. It was enough to distract from the comparatively unimpressive hobbit clutching desperately to his back, sword raised in grim determination.

 

Almost, almost—

 

Thorin took a great leap, claws flashing as he made to bare down on the goblins. They scattered before the giant wolf, clearing the way for his graceful arch and allowing Bilbo to lift up in his seat and slice his sword clean through the ropes holding the gate up. Thorin’s front paws touched the ground the same moment the gate swung down, revealing itself to be a drawbridge. It slammed down, making a sudden portal out into the outside world, the blizzard still raging fiercely against them.

 

The hobbit barely had time to brace himself before they were out, the shrieks and angry shouts behind them almost immediately drowned in the merciless onslaught of bitter cold and snow. Grimacing he ducked his head, wishing desperately for a cloak. There was no way they would be followed out in this. It was suicide. Everything was pure white with the storm, the snow drowning all else out.

 

They were out. They were _out_ and had escaped. They had done it. The cursed dwarf King and a little hobbit from the Shire had destroyed the palantír and escaped the Fortress with their lives.

A near hysterical laugh bubbled up from his lips and he turned as much as he could while clinging to his furry companion, watching the Fortress looming behind. A few warg howls split the air, and arrows rained down—completely ineffective with the storm. Maybe the wargs could follow them for a while, but already the massive structure was becoming completely obscured by the oppressive whiteness of the snow, the wind buffering them from all sides.

 

All they had to do was survive the storm and they were in the clear. Thorin trudged through the snow, coming around to the frozen waterfall and the steep decline they would have to scale. At least the snow would cushion the impact if they—

 

_BOOM_

 

 

Next thing Bilbo knew, he was laying face down in the snow, feeling it sink into his clothing uncomfortably. Head ringing, he pushed himself up, wincing at the soreness to his body. He shook his head, curls flying abut madly in the wind. What?

“Thorin?” he called, voice barely audible over the din and the hard _thump thump thump_ of—

 

“By the gardens!”

Only snow. He had been thankful there was only snow to worry about. Apparently he had not taken into account bodiless sorcerers and their ability to possess all manner of things. And apparently this included snow. And rock.

 

A huge abomination of rocky snow and ice lumbered towards him, looking like a nightmarish cousin of the stone giants they had encountered in the Misty Mountains. Only so much bulkier, with blazing green eyes and a hideous mouth like a gaping tear in where Bilbo guessed to be the head. It let out a horrible, bloodcurdling roar that shook the very ground, its body convulsing unnaturally with the force of it.

The hobbit was completely frozen to the spot in horror, only snapping out of it when he heard a pained whine come from his left. “Thorin!” Squinting against the binding force of the blizzard, he whipped around, searching desperately for any sing of the wolf, trying to keep the possessed _thing_ in his sight as he searched. Unfortunately the giant snow monster seemed to have heard the sound as well, and it’s gaze left the hobbit, scanning the ground for the wolf.

 

Where, _where_ was Thorin?! The storm was distorting his sound and sight, the howls of wargs coming in bits and pieces, the deep drums of the Fortress he could still feel from the ground, the only constant was the huge _thing_ with glowing green eyes, howling out in fury and shaking the ground with each lumbering step it took in their direction.

 

Right. 

 

He stumbled to his feet, cursing silently at his snow-filled boots. Thorin was injured somewhere and possibly unable to move. If Thorin were spotted, he’d be a sitting duck. Best to give the sorcerer something to look at, then.

“Hey!” he waved his arms around wildly, yelling as loud as he could into the freezing wind “Hey _you!_ ” The thing swiveled, fixing on the small hobbit and drawing itself up. “That’s right! I’m taking to you, you great ugly, stupid thing! What kind of an awful sorcerer is bested by a hobbit? I just snuck into your fortress and destroyed your palantír, you couldn’t even catch me if I was standing still you second-rate _magician!_ ”

 

And that had certainly gotten its attention. He spun around quickly, all but swimming through the snow that was well up to his waist and giving a quick moment to hope that Thorin was safely out of its line of sight. Huge lumbering steps were well and truly following him now, and he put everything he had into struggling against the snow, just getting it away from Thorin. He could see the steep decline of the cliff dropping off, the part of the mountain where the Langwell sprung forth, now a gleaming curtain of frozen ice. 

A sudden desperate idea popped into his head as he neared the edge and he sucked in a deep, freezing breath, stealing himself. There wasn’t time to think up a better plan, and he could only hope that everything wouldn’t go completely to hell.

 

An inhuman shriek echoed through the mountains, and he changed a glance over his shoulder, seeing the thing just a few yards away from him. The whole ground shook with its every step, and heavy _THUMP THUMP THUMP_ , getting louder and faster as the massive thing picked up momentum, its prey almost close enough to grab. 

Breath catching in his throat at the sight of the massive thing towering behind him, he threw himself at the snow, nearly at the frozen river. This was where the hobbit had earlier climbed up into the fortress, through the small gap in the grating at the top of the waterfall. The ground was leveled out on either side of it, allowing Bilbo to throw himself flat down in the snow, barely dodging the huge makeshift fist smashing down into the ground just behind him.

 

His head spun around, curls flying everywhere in the harsh storm. Two massive green eyes met his own, piercing out of the mass of ice and rock the sorcerer had possessed. Bilbo’s heart stopped. The creature let out a shriek, eyes blazing, jagged teeth bared and brought its great arms around, trapping the hobbit between its bulk and the icy sheet of vertical frozen water behind him. Sparing a quick moment to hope Thorin had gotten away, the little creature squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath—

 

And jumped.

 

 

A great roar followed him down, down the slippery unforgiving slope of the waterfall, and he could only be thankful that it did not go entirely straight downwards but had a slight curve, allowing him to not plummet straight to his death. His back and behind ached as he landed where the waterfall began to merge into the river proper, sending him sliding down as it wound through the mountains. He would have some nasty bruises in interesting places if he ever got out of this, no doubt. 

It was a bit like sledding down a hill as he used to do as a fauntling. Except this time there was no sleigh. And it was a sheer, bumpy ice surface he was sliding down instead of a nicely padded hill. Not to mention the giant, possessed snow monster raging behind him. 

 

Certainly wouldn’t do to forget _that_.

 

The terrible shriek of rage echoed after him, cutting through the muffling haze of the storm. Bilbo could only hope that the thing was angry enough, enraged enough that it would come after him, that it would—

Head whipping around, he tried to see as best as he could what was happened above him.

 

_Oh please, please, please work_

 

There—There!

 

The monster lunged out after him, throwing itself down the drop behind him in a blind rage. It smashed its great arms down—and broke right through the ice. A horrible, jarring crunch rang out, cracking and splintering all along the length of the frozen expanse. With a piercing shriek of dismay the creature was blasted with a sudden spray of water, then another and another, until it was completely swallowed up in the huge blast of water smashing down, the force of it crashing the ice all around in a huge, deadly wall.

Bilbo whimpered as huge cracks chased him down even as he sped further away, the ice under him beginning to splinter and crack. The great wave of ice water seemed to hang in the air, the sound merging with the howling wind and the roar of the monster plummeting down with it. 

 

“Ai, Yavanna,” the hobbit breathed, sucking in a sharp breath and clenching his eyes shut.

 

The horrible crunch of splintering ice and the roar of the water was the last thing he heard before everything was plunged into a freezing, biting darkness.

 

Xxx

 

The lifeless body jolted on the table, limbs twitching erratically as it was engulfed in a green glow. It sat up abruptly, eyes wild and lips snarled. A noise from across the room drew its attention and it turned, spying the old, grey man sitting quietly in a chair.

Gandalf watched with hard eyes as Tugûthul repossessed the human corpse, calmly smoking his pipe as the sorcerer watched him warily in return.

 

Xxx

 

Thorin panted harshly as he lunged through the snow, the fiery pain in his side stinging with each surge of his muscles. He had to get to Bilbo. One minute the hobbit had been safely settled atop his back, and the next the wolf was thrown to the ground, hobbit-less, a sharp pain flaming across his ribs. 

 

They had apparently pissed the sorcerer off enough with the destruction of the palantír that he had decided to hell with humanoid forms and just became a huge snow…thing. Monster. Something of the sort. He was a bit distracted by the clearly suicidal hobbit trying to throw himself off a waterfall.

Heart in his throat, Thorin watched in helpless fear as Bilbo jumped clear into the path of the waterfall. Growling, he forced his burning limbs to move faster, _faster_ , towards the river and the steep slope downwards. The lumbering monster roared in fury, the ground shaking all around. It launched itself after the hobbit, and Thorin knew then that there was very little time before the whole river would shatter under its weight.

 

He reached the decline in the cliff just in time to see the thing impact on the frozen surface, a huge, earth-rattling crack sounding ominously over the roar of the wind. The river gushed forwards, swallowing up the possessed abomination of snow and ice—and crushing down towards the small, curly-haired being in its wake.

_No_

 

In an instant, Bilbo was gone, the river roaring to life all around him, ice and water bursting forth as the whole surface of the river began to crack and break under the onslaught. 

Teeth bared, Thorin leapt down the steep decline, sliding down the snow-covered cliff face. The snow whipped at him, his thick fur protecting him from the worst of it as he ran and vaulted over rock and frozen ice in his way. He kept his eyes glued on the river, watching the surging torrent desperately for any sign of his hobbit.

 

There!

 

A small hand flailed above of the surface for just a moment before being swept back under the churning rush. But it was enough.

The water was freezing, surging all around him as he plunged in deep, the current trying to sweep him away in its fury. The wound in his side throbbed and stung, huge chunks of ice and rock swirled all around and as he broke the surface the cold of the air was like a knife. He dove back down, eyes catching on a flash of red in the midst of the murky, deadly water rushing all around. 

 

Stretching his neck out, he snagged the bright red coat with his teeth, tugging the hobbit up, struggling against the heavy, suffocating weight all around. A huge chunk of ice slamming into his injured side had him nearly release his hold, but Thorin kept his teeth clenched tight, only grunting in pain at the impact. With a great heave, he broke free of the water, hauling Bilbo up as best he could. The river suddenly curved, sending them both crashing into the rocky bank. Thorin twisted around, digging his claws into the rock and ice of the solid bank and slowing them, holding steady against the downward current of the river.

With a great heave, Thorin dragged the hobbit around flush against the bank and pulled himself up, tugging the smaller creature with up him onto the solid snow and rock of the ground. He immediately rolled the frighteningly limp and sodden hobbit onto his back. 

 

Bilbo was soaked, curls a frightful mess, skin pale, snow already beginning to stick to his skin where it landed. He leaned over and licked at the hobbit’s face, whining at how terribly cold and still the small body under his own was with a growing fear.

 

He wasn’t breathing.

 

xxx

 

The promised delegation of elves finally arrived at Erebor as Gandalf and Dwalin had said they would. Two was a smaller number than was anticipated, though no dwarf would be caught complaining about the lack of elves in a mountain. In fact it was probably for the best that so small a number came taking mind the tentative, barely-civil alliance Erebor had with their elven neighbours, and how seeing a large group of their guards parading around Erebor may have had a negative affect on the already precarious position the line of Durin found themselves in.

It did help that these elves were Captain Tauriel, the Guard Captain that had openly defied her Lord and defended Dís’ sons in the battle, and the Lady Arwen, daughter of Elrond (a generally less hated elf than Thranduil) and a powerful ally on her own. 

 

The news of Tugûthul’s collapse had spread quickly, the whole mountain buzzing about it as Gandalf had quite clearly seen with Bofur and Bifur, toeing a very unconscious sorcerer out of the mines. Lord Firebeard blamed Gandalf, stating that the wizard had grown jealous of the sorcerer and had done something to his perceived rival for his own personal gain. Not too many seemed to believe this as truth, as Bofur and Bifur were witnesses to the sorcerer’s sudden collapse, and Gandalf was generally liked or at least tolerated for his own role played in restoring Erebor and aiding Thorin’s company. 

So though there was much excitement and talk, very little was actually happening aside from Firebeard threatening the Wizard with dismemberment should Tugûthul fail to recover. It was not actually within his power to carry such a sentence out, however, as Dis had happily informed him, and Gandalf had outright laughed at the threat before sweeping off mysteriously. The mountain had been plunged into a state of waiting, a stalemate of sorts, to see what would happen with the sorcerer, if Gandalf would prove to be treacherous, and what those bloody weed-eaters could be doing in Erebor.

 

Gandalf was currently with the sorcerer, him being something of an expert on magic was the only one who could offer assistance on magical injuries. Officially the wizard was there to offer mystical healing support. Unofficially, he was keeping a close eye on what they knew to be a long dead body, waiting to see if and when the sorcerer would repossess his vessel. The manner of his return would give them some news on how Bilbo and Thorin had managed with the palantír, and hopefully further insight on what should be done next.

 

In the meanwhile a quick meeting was called, Dís gathering the company in a private room to hear what news the elves had brought for them.

“Thranduil offers his support under the condition of proper evidence for this sorcerer’s power and ill-intent, and that there be a reward of his choosing should be indeed help the line of Durin,” Tauriel stated, wrinkling her nose slightly in distaste. “I will do my utmost to argue your case, my Lady.”

 

“That is better than we had expected,” Dís replied. “Finding sufficient proof will be no hardship, though convincing your King may take some doing if he is in a mind to be unconvinced.” Tauriel gave a smile.

“It is my belief that the prospect of a reward of his choice will be too appealing for my King to pass up.”

 

Gloin muttered darkly, “Why is that not surprising,” earning a few grunts in agreement from around the table. 

“Erebor can certainly spare most of its treasure, should it come to it,” Balin announced. “Our true wealth lies in profits from trade and cultivation of the mountain. Even if he were to ask for half of our current wealth, with steady trade and Erebor herself placated, we should bounce back without much real trouble.”

Dwalin grunted, “Knowing that stuck up prick, he’d want something that would hurt Thorin. He’d try an’ injure his pride or humiliate him when he has the chance, fucking scumbag he is. No offense, lassie,” the guard added as an afterthought, sending Tauriel a quick apology for insulting her King. She waved him off good-naturedly.

 

“None taken. I have heard much fouler things directed towards my Lord, some of which I myself have said. It is my understanding that Thranduil intends to do as much.”

“What would make Uncle really mad?” wondered Kili aloud, leaning back in his seat, “Making him give up his sword?”

“Or his crown,” added Nori.

“Not the raven crown!” exclaimed Ori, covering his mouth in shock. “That’s been passed down from Durin ruler to ruler—it would be sacrilege!”

 

“I rather think that’s the point,” Nori muttered, receiving a punch from his younger brother.

 

“Don’t even _say_ such things!”

“What?! It could legitimately happen.”

 

“Ohh no no no, I’m, I’m not hearing this!”

“Thorin did give over those star gems, didn’t he?” asked Bombur quietly, gently patting a distraught Ori on the shoulder. “Maybe there’s something else like that he’d want?”

“We have very few things of elven make currently stocked away,” Gloin informed them, puffing out his chest importantly. “I’d know! I’m a royal banker! There’s only a few odds and ends. The most valuable elvish piece in the treasury was a shirt of mithril, but Thorin’s already given that away to our hobbit, so that’s out.”

 

“Could he ask for it back?” asked Fili, stroking his moustache in concern.

“That would really start a war,” muttered Dwalin darkly, much to the loud agreement of the others.

 

“We are straying from the point,” cut in Dís, rubbing at her temples, “Thranduil will doubtless cause some deep offence, but we’ll mine that vein when we get to it. In the meanwhile, we know his help can be bought should we need—“

 

“What if he asks for the Arkenstone?” asked Kili suddenly, immediately sending the table into chaos.

 

“That bastard!”

“Fuck! That’s just what he’d do!”

“What?! No—that’s, that’s—!” Ori stuttered in horror, unable to voice exactly what he though it was.

“Typical, backstabbing, two-faced, poncy scumbag!”

 

“Enough!” Dís efficiently silenced them by bringing the flat of her axe hard down upon the table. “As I said, we mine this vein when we have to. With any luck it won’t come to that. Mirkwood’s forces will be a backup, a last resort should the situation turn too dire.”

 

“Just so,” agreed Dori primly.

 

Arwen cleared her throat, drawing the table’s attention, “My Lady, Lord Elrond offers his support. I am here as visible proof of Rivendell’s alliance and support for King Thorin and the line of Durin. Whatever good that might do,” she added wryly, well aware of the bad blood between elves and dwarves and the delicate position of the mountain. “Should this sorcerer truly have designs on the throne and plan on unleashing his forces on the north, you can count on an army of elves to fight against it.”

 

Dís smiled and bowed her head graciously. “You have our most humble thanks, Lady Arwen. Let us hope it does not come to that.”

“Well look at that, some actually decent elves. Who’s have thought?” remarked Nori, grinning.

 

“It is the belief of my family that the elder have as much responsibility as any to see to the well-being of this world,” explained Arwen. “We will stand with you. If there is a great evil rising again, we will not shut ourselves away in our realm.”

Tauriel huffed a small laugh and nodded, “Quite right,” she agreed, smiling at the other elf.

 

“Oh, that’s what you’ve been doing!” Kili exclaimed, grinning widely at the red-haired elf. “That’s why you helped us, because you don’t agree with Thranduil! You want to help the rest of the world with your magical elf powers!”

Arwen seemed to have a sudden coughing fit causing Taruiel to elbow her sharply in the ribs, the sylvan elf’s ears turning bright red. “…More or less, yes,” she agreed, clearing her throat awkwardly. Arwen recovered herself, sending Tauriel a toothy grin

 

“Ohhh! That’s so cool!” Kili said, staring at the elf captain in awe. He leapt to his feet. “I, too, will fight for the well-being of the world, at your side, if you—“

“Sit down lad!” Oin pushed the young dwarf back into his seat. “Time and a place,” the healer muttered.

 

“Yes, thank you for that Kili,” remarked Nori dryly.

“Anytime,” replied Kili proudly.

“That wasn’t a compliment, Kee,” Fili said to his brother in a mock whisper.

 

“Oh.”

 

“Anyway!” Dori stated loudly, clearing his throat. “Perhaps we should return to the matter at hand?”

Balin nodded, “What of our other allies?”

 

“We’ve been in contact with Bard and he too is willing to lend his support,” said Fili. “Fortunately he doesn’t require any kind of reward or bribe.”

“They would,” said Dori, “Firebeard’s all for cutting off trade entirely unless its with other dwarf tribes or colonies. The loss of trade would be the end of Dale, especially if the mountain became hostile to its neighbours.”

“What of the other dwarf tribes?” glowered Dwalin. “Are they planning to turn their backs on us again?”

 

“Our kindred are not united in their stances,” replied Dís. “The Blue Mountains are with us, though the sheer distance means they won’t be able to get here for at least three months. Dain himself is with us, but many of his allies are not. Supporting Thorin could cost him valuable trading partners.”

Dwalin grunted, “Dain will come, he’s not about to watch Thorin be robbed of his birthright a second time.”

“He’ll come,” agreed Oin, “But how many will follow him remains to be seen.”

 

Balin cleared his throat. “The Co-Khazad Prosperity Alliance is gaining in popularity. Firebeard on the throne would lead us into that, a rule dedicated to strengthening bonds between all dwarven kingdoms and tribes, using our combined might to restore dwarven kind to the glory days of old,” the old dwarf sighed. “Fancy words for declaring war against all other races. This is what Firebeard would see done. Or he would if he were not merely a puppet for Tugûthul.”

The doors suddenly swung open with a bang, startling everyone to look at the newcomer.

“The sorcerer has returned,” announced Gandalf, sweeping into the room, robes billowing out, the doors swinging shut behind him.

 

Oin gave a sigh, “Ugh, does he always have to be so bloody dramatic?”

 

Xxx

 

Cold fear seized stopped his heart, and before he knew it Thorin had his face pressed against Bilbo’s chest, desperate to feel it rise and fall. The hobbit’s clothes were freezing and wet against his fur. He growled, reaching to check for a pulse on his throat. The transition from wolf to dwarf was thoughtless, Thorin only knew he needed his hands, needed to press his shaking fingers against the pale throat and wait. 

 

Nothing.

“Bilbo!” the dwarf grated out, shaking the small being desperately. “Bilbo please, wake up!”

Calm down, he needed to cam down, and think. There was still hope—

_He had been young, joining Dwalin and a small group of others to do a routine patrol around Erebor. They had run into a few orcs and chased them to the edge of Long Lake. It was an easy fight, everything in their favour until one of the newest guards had fallen into the water during the scuffle. They managed to pull him from the lake, but he wasn’t breathing. Dwalin had laid the dwarf out, pushed down on his chest and forced breath into him until he had woken, spluttering and coughing up water, but alive—_

 

With a sound somewhere between a sob and a snarl, Thorin covered the small chest with his hands, staring for a moment in dismay at how large they seemed against the smaller being. Bracing himself, he pressed down, silently counting out thirty compressions before he halted in his efforts, Bilbo still motionless on the ground. Leaning down, he gripped Bilbo’s chin, prying his mouth open and sealing his lips over the cold ones below. 

 

Many, many times Thorin had fantasized about the feel of Bilbo’s lips against his own, the hobbit warm and willing against him as they shared pleasurable touches between them, all soft and teasing and blissful. 

This, this was a nightmare. Bilbo was freezing, cold and unresponsive, skin wet and horribly pale. Two breaths, he forced his own air into the hobbit, feeling his chest move with each inhale and exhale. He pulled back, watching Bilbo’s face closely for any sign of chance, any indication it had done something, anything—

Again, he pressed his trembling hands against Bilbo’s chest, pushing down in steady, consistent compressions. It had to work, it would work. Mahal, it must. 

 

Thorin would die before giving up. Not if there was still a chance.

His heart pounded frantically away in his chest as if to make up for the lack of movement from Bilbo’s. He nearly cursed it, willing his own pulse to somehow jump into the small body beneath him, if only it could-- 

 

With a sudden, violent movement, Bilbo jerked upwards, chest convulsing as water spewed from his mouth, eyes fluttering madly. 

“Oh Mahal, thank you, _thank you_ ,” Thorin breathed reverently, quickly turning Bilbo onto his front, keeping an arm securely around his waist and patting his back as the hobbit heaved and shuddered out choking breath after blessed breath, his body finally expelling the water trapped in his lungs.

 

Never before had Thorin been so pleased at the sight of another vomiting. A laugh escaped him, a tight, breathless thing. Bilbo was alive. _Alive._

“That’s it,” he murmured encouragingly, gazing at the other tenderly, even as he spewed river water and bile all over the snow. “Get it all out, dear hobbit,” With a soft groan Bilbo slumped in his grasp, breaths raw and desperate, but _there_. He gathered the hobbit close, turning him over onto his side and tucking him against his chest, pressing a firm kiss to those ridiculous curls in gratitude.

 

A weak moan had him pulling back to fully assess the hobbit. His eyes fluttered feebly, a weak cough forcing it’s way out of the pale lips.

Too pale. 

Bilbo was shaking, shivers raking his body relentlessly, his features pinched in pain. Fear sunk back into his heart like a knife, and Thorin knew he had to get Bilbo warm and dry _immediately_.

 

It was only then that Thorin realized he was kneeling naked in the snow.

The pure fear and adrenaline pumping through his veins had surely blocked out the bitter cold. A shiver ran through him as he saw his bright red skin against the icy ground, though he ignored it. The adrenaline had better keep up. Thorin had no patience to be affected. 

Dwarves were made to endure, bodies naturally running hot from the forge-fire of their creation, tough and strong and stout, unbroken and unbending as a mountain. So Thorin would be, cold or no. 

 

Getting to his feet he clutched his sodden bundle of hobbit carefully, hunching over Bilbo as much as he could to spare him from the bite of the wind and doggedly began walking. The wolf rose up in his subconscious enough to pick up the familiar scent of the cave they had camped in and he made for it, hoping desperately that it had remained untouched in their absence.

There had been ice water in Bilbo’s lungs. The bluish tinge to the hobbit’s face and fingers told Thorin they did not have the time to search for a new shelter.

 

Xxx

 

The fire cackled brightly, its flames filling the small cave with whatever warmth it could against the onslaught of the storm still raging outside. 

Thankfully all of their belongings had still been there. Their packs and furs, and mercifully the small bundle of firewood they had managed to scrounge together. 

Laying as close to the fire as he would dare, Thorin had stripped Bilbo of his wet clothes and bundled him up with every blanket and fur they had, holding the small form tightly against his own. Never had Thorin imagined they would lay naked together without having Bilbo’s heartfelt consent, but the bluish tinge to the hobbit’s lips and nose had left Thorin with little choice. 

 

Nuzzling closer, he rubbed broad hands up and down the chilled form, trying to comfort the smaller creature with what heat his own body could give.

Bilbo remained deeply unconscious.

An indiscernible period of time passed before Bilbo’s shivering began to subside, the blue leaving his face and his body, though the awful paleness remained. Careful to keep the heat in, Thorin cautiously squirmed his way out of the blankets, building up the fire and casting a wary eye on what little wood they had left. No more than a few scraps of kindling were left. Forcing down the cold jolt of fear threatening to erupt into panic, he swallowed harshly, casting a tense look at his wounded companion, all but the tips of his mop of curls completely hidden under the mound of blankets and furs. Turning away sharply he rummaged through their bags, quickly locating some clean linen and healing salves, and pulled out a dry change of clothes.

 

Carefully he unwrapped the hobbit, leaning over him so as not to rob him of much needed warmth. With much speed and care he checked Bilbo for injuries, finding abrasions and cuts from the river scattered across his body. His hands lingered over the dark bruising around Bilbo’s chest sending a rush of guilt through the dwarf. There was no way he could have prevented it in forcing the breath back into the smaller being, though he uttered a small plea of forgiveness anyhow. He dressed the wounds as quickly as he could and bundled the hobbit into his warmest clothes, sliding a pair of his own socks over Bilbo’s feet, the makeshift ones he had crafted too soggy to offer much warmth.

 

“Bilbo…please,” he whispered into the drying curls, drawing the bundle of too-still hobbit into his arms. “Come back to me. Come back and tell me what a fool I’ve been. Let me see your eyes again and hear your voice. Please sanghivasha. I cannot bear it without you.”

He cradled the little thing close, so small, lying broken and shivering in his arms. The dwarf tucked him against his chest, rocking back and forth, hoping he could bring some comfort to this being he had so terribly wronged.

 

As he gazed down into the face that had haunted his dreams, framed by golden curls and cocooned in his furs, Thorin wondered to himself how his world had shrunken. Everything he was, ever had been, everything he cared for, in that moment he could hold in his arms. His whole world had somehow become this one being, this small, frustrating and utterly contrary creature cradled in his arms, pale and unconscious and so very dear.

Carefully, so carefully, he lowered his head and pressed his forehead against the hobbit’s, tears trickling down his face as those golden curls were carried up from the wind and teased softly at his cheek.

 

xxx

 

“So the palantír is destroyed!” exclaimed Kili. “This is…good? Yes? Smile, everyone needs to be smiling,” he slumped when nobody broke into spontaneous celebration. “Ok, why isn’t this good? I though we wanted to destroy the palantír?”

 

“The palantír is destroyed,” Gandalf agreed. “And that is a very good thing! But now we must deal with the sorcerer himself.”

 

“Hang on, I thought he was the stone?” 

“That was his soul.”

“Naw, his soul is in the creepy body he parades around here,” Bofur added. “The stone is just a resting place.”

“So why did Thorin and Bilbo need to destroy the palantír, then?” asked Dori.

 

“Gandalf, would you perhaps care to clarify what exactly is going on, and how we can use that to get rid of that wretched man once and for all?” asked Dís. 

 

Tauriel backed up the dwarf’s request. “Yes, that would be much appreciated Mithrandir.”

“Such dark magic is indeed a terrible thing. It is wholly unlike the kinds of magic found in nature,” Gandalf gave a wry chuckle and lit his pipe, taking a long drag and blowing a smoke-ring into the air. “It can be quite confusing to those unused to its ways.”

“Or maybe it wouldn’t have to be if you’d just bloody explain things instead of dancing around the topic,” muttered Dwalin, glowering at the thoroughly unfazed wizard.

 

“Tugûthul is a sorcerer,” stated the wizard, ignoring the interruption. “He started off as, I believe, a mortal man with a particular drive and thirst for power. He must have found it with the necromancer. Dark magic of that kind always has a cost. In this case it was his body. His spirit, the very core of a person, became far too much for the frail body of a mere mortal human to hold within it. Flesh and bone would have simply burnt away from such power. The palantír allowed Tugûthul a vessel that he could stay in safely, for an unlimited amount of time, as it was a powerful enough object to hold the weight of his spirit.”

“And you say the palantír’s been destroyed,” asked Dori slowly. Gandalf nodded in agreement.

“What does that mean now?” asked Bifur in khuzdul.

“It means the sorcerer has no vessel that can hold his spirit without being consumed by it,” responded Gandalf, easily understanding the ancient dialect.

 

“So…” began Fili, “All we have to do is keep him in a vessel long enough that it falls apart? Then he’ll die?”

 

“Not exactly.”

“What _exactly?_ ”

“Hang on, can’t he jump bodies?” asked Bofur. “Wasn’t that what you were talking about earlier? How he can go from here back to his fortress and all?”

 

“Tugûthul can possess all manner of vessels, from flesh to object to matter. And no, the destruction of a vessel he is currently occupying will not destroy his spirit.”

“Wait, what do you mean, objects?”

“Matter? As in raw metal? Wood?”

 

“How do we know he’s not in this room right now?! Possessing a chair—or a person?!”

“What?!”

“Oh Mahal!”

 

“Silence!” thundered the wizard. “The sorcerer cannot possess a living being. He fancies himself a necromancer for a reason, and that is in animating empty vessels. He could not takeover the mind nor body of another living creature without killing them first.”

“And mater, you said,” added Dori. “There is an energy to all things, rock and stone all sing with it faintly. Could he possess this as well?”

 

“Theoretically yes. Objects he could take over easily. Those with a strong energy already within them would need to be bent to his will, but once bent, it would sustain him. Like the planatír did. Now, living, uncut rock would prove to be much more difficult to corrupt. For a time he could, perhaps, have some sway over it, but it would require much effort and energy on his part, and I believe he would be forced to retreat into a safer form to recover his strength afterwards.”

Bofur snapped his fingers, “Earlier when he was down in the mines, me and Bif saw him poking and muttering around the cave-in. Probably trying to get it to budge for him.”

 

“Fat chance of that.”

“Could he turn Erebor against us?”

“Of course not!”

“Were he to try and force this mountain to collapse on itself, or rearrange in configuration, it would be impossible,” Gandalf said loudly, cutting them off. “Mountains with dwarves living and tending them are more aware, more alive than any others. I’m sure you’ve all felt it yourselves. Erebor is strong, and she will defend her people.”

 

“Aye, and a right beauty she is at that.”

 

“That being said, objects, do not have the same protection,” continued the wizard.

“So he _could_ be the chair!” declared Kili triumphantly.

“No he could not, young Kili.”

“The table then!”

“No, he’s not the table—“

“Gandalf, your hat! Weren’t you just with the sorcerer?! Maybe he possessed your—“

 

“Tugûthul is _not_ my hat, nor any other object, matter or being in this room!” boomed the wizard, eyebrows bristling intimidatingly. 

“But you just said—“

“Do you think I would have said all that I did if Tugûthul was right here in this room?” he huffed, glowering. “Give a wizard some credit, I can sense his presence as easily as you can feel the ground you stand on. He is not in this room!”

 

“Now that we’ve cleared that up, can we get back to the killing the sorcerer part?” asked Gloin, patting his axe.

“Yes, let’s.”

“Mithrandir,” said Arwen, “You mentioned that after exerting a vast amount of his power he would need to rest for some time?” 

“Indeed. And that is how we shall get him. The palantír is gone. And he has presumably no other vessel he can stay in for long without destroying it.”

 

“Couldn’t he keep jumping from vessel to vessel?” Nori asked, “As soon as one starts to look shady he’ll just slink off into another one?”

“Each time he inhabits a new form he uses energy,” lectured the wizard. “What he has been doing, I suspect, is during the day going about in the body you all know here in Erebor. As soon as he was out of the public eye, he could travel back to his palantír and gather his strength. Refresh his spirit. To any it would have simply appeared as if he slept, but in fact his spirit would have fled entirely. He no longer has that luxury.”

“So we need to…” Ori waved his hands around vaguely, “Make him exert a lot of energy?”

 

Gandalf hummed in agreement, “I image he has been drawing on his magic on a near constant basis, as the state of the mines go.”

“Aye, resurrecting those nasties deep down.”

“Which would draw on his power.”

“What else has been doing?” asked Dwalin. 

 

Dís grumbled, “Cursing my brother, for one.”

“How does that work? How can he curse someone?” inquired Ori curiously.

 

“Ah. From what I understand, Tugûthul cannot create anything of his own. Like all foul magic, he can only twist and defile something that was already there. The only reason he was able to curse Thorin at all was because the dwarf had such strong negative emotions within him already. All the sorcerer had to do was twist it, use those emotions as a fuel for his enchantments.”

 

“Has anyone else been cursed?” Oin asked, gazing around at the others suspiciously.

“If what Gandalf says is true,” began Arwen, “it can only be done if a person is consumed by an overpowering negative emotion, and the sorcerer knows of it.”

 

The wizard smiled, “Precisely. Besides, it would take up a great amount of his energy to do so. No, I doubt we’ll be seeing any more curses—“

“Bilbo!” Bofur blurted out, halting all conversation.

“What?”

“Bilbo was traveling with Thorin, wasn’t he?” asked the miner nervously. “They destroyed the palantír. What if the sorcerer…”

Worry flashed in Gandalf’s eyes for a moment before replacing it with his usual calm. “It is a possibility. But from what I saw of Tugûthul upon his repossession of the body, he looked shaken and angry. I do not think it would have been so had managed to curse our hobbit.”

 

“Aye,” Dwalin stated. “Besides, Bilbo’s a tough little thing. He’d not let some curse get in his way anyhow.”

 

“Not if Thorin was there with him,” added Gloin, earning a few chuckles from around.

“Tugûthul is planning to summon his forces from his stronghold in the Grey Mountains, and bring them down on Erebor. He’ll be focusing on Firebeard, on trying to wrest power away from Durin’s line so the dwarves of Erebor are scattered and unprepared from the take-over and easy prey for his army.”

 

“He’s isolationist too. It would cut us off from our allies leaving us wide open for attack. Especially if there’s unrest within the mountain, and creepers he can summon up from the mines.”

“But that would take a lot of energy, wouldn’t it?” asked Ori. 

 

“And he’s got to play his part as the ‘Mouthpiece of the Mountain’ and all, lurking behind Firebeard,” added Nori.

Fili smirked, “But now he’s got nowhere to recharge when he gets tired.”

 

“So what we must do,” began Gandalf, “is to prevent him from getting any rest. Keep him in his human body. He’ll not be so quick to abandon it if he’s being watched.”

 

“If we exhaust him enough, will we kill him?” asked Dori.

“He cannot exist as only a spirit without a vessel. Not for more than a few minutes at most. If he has exhausted too much of his strength and has his current vessel destroyed, he would be trapped. Having a vessel destroyed while he possesses it takes a toll on his spirit, which he could recover from if he takes shelter in a new vessel. But if he is too damaged, he cannot enter another vessel for he will have no strength to do so. He will simply burn away, without a physical means to sustain himself. Which is what we must try to do.”

“So we get him really, really tired and then we kill him normal style,” Kili summed up.

 

“But we’ll have to make sure we’ve truly killed him, and he’s not simply jumped to a new vessel,” warned Balin.

“From my experience, that shouldn’t be a problem,” Nori smirked, twirling a knife easily in his hand. “Power hungry types tend to be on the dramatic side. When we get him, we’ll know we’ve got him. He’ll give some spectacular death cry without a doubt.”

 

“He crumbled like a doll in the mines,” added Bofur thoughtfully. “Looked dead. He’s got to appear strong if he’s going to support Firebeard. And if he’s literally fallin’ apart, then we have an advantage.”

“It also means he’ll be desperate,” added Gandalf. “The palantír is gone. He’ll be looking for a replacement.”

 

Arwen frowned. “He cannot possibly find another seeing stone. Many are lost.”

 

“No,” Gandalf raised his eyebrows significantly. “But there are other powerful objects he could use.”

“The Arkenstone!” exclaimed Ori.

“There is no way Firebeard would ever be allowed to even get close to the throne!” said Gloin angrily.

“But the sorcerer might,” added Nori. “Who’s to say he couldn’t steal it?”

“He’ll no doubt have his eye on the stone,” affirmed Balin grimly. “Unfortunately for him, many others will as well.”

Dori huffed, “Folks may support Firebeard, but they won’t just let him give the Arkenstone to an outsider.” A somewhat uncomfortable silence fell over the table at the mention of the Arkenstone being taken by an outsider. 

 

“There would be no reason to, in this case,” said Balin softly. “How could Firebeard justify it? Even as a gift of thanks, or an aid to magic, nothing will raise suspicion faster than giving away such an important artifact.”

“Yer assuming Firebeard will get Arkenstone at all,” grumbled Dwalin darkly, flexing his fists threateningly. “It’s above the throne for a reason. He’d have to stage his rebellion first, and win. Just grabbing the stone alone is treason and an instant death sentence. Even if he overthrew Thorin he’d need the stone there to help aid his pitiful claim at kingship, he’d not be too keen on giving it to a bloody sorcerer of all things.”

 

“Nonetheless, Tugûthul himself will be desperate,” stated Gandalf knowingly. “He may try to corrupt it into being his new vessel. He wouldn’t need to have it in his possession, merely the time and physical contact needed to bind his spirit to it.”

“Dwalin, Nori, we’ll set a tight guard on the stone at all times,” ordered Dís, the two dwarves nodding in grim agreement. “No one will be taking that bloody stone.”

 

Xxx

 

Movement, his ears twitched as he heard something shuffling about the entrance of the cave. Thorin had changed into his wolf form, hoping the additional fur and clothing would do further to warm Bilbo. It also provided him with heightened senses, alerting him of the intruder. A deep, desperate rage came over him and he bared his teeth, fur bristling. No. _No_. 

 

Nothing was going to hurt his hobbit—not while he still had a single breath left in his body.

Growling low and threatening, Thorin carefully shifted so he was crouched over Bilbo’s prone form, protectively covering the smaller body with his own. Stance low he bristled, fangs bared and snarling as a figure appeared out of the blinding white of the storm.

 

“Easy, _easy_ there,” came a soft voice. It didn’t sound dangerous, and a part of Thorin even recognized it, though faintly. But he had been through too much, had had to watch Bilbo fall through the ice, hear his terrified cries and pulled his drowned body from the river—nothing was coming near him. Not without going through Thorin first.

“Thorin, was it?” asked the voice. And now he could see him. A tall mannish figure, wearing long robes and a strange, floppy hat that reminded him of Bofur. His heart gave a lurch, the sudden instinct to trust this person warring with the need to keep Bilbo safe, to _protect_. Aiming for a growl, a high whine escaped him, his hears flopping back and his body beginning to shake.

“Oh, you poor thing! You’re exhausted,” all he could do was carefully lower himself onto Bilbo, careful not to crush him but unable to move away. The person moved forwards slowly, making small shushing sounds and stretching his hands out.

 

Radagast. It was Radagast. The strange, brown wizard with the rabbit sleigh. “I’m here to help, I swear. Oh, the poor little thing,” the wizard exclaimed, catching sight of what little of Bilbo was showing from under the cocoon of blankets and Thorin’s own furry form. The wizard crouched down beside them and carefully ran his hand down Thorin’s fuzzy muzzle, the touch instantly soothing. 

“Let me see him. I can help.” Reluctantly, Thorin shifted back onto his haunches, bearing the upper part of the hobbit to the wizard’s scrutiny but hovering over him protectively, another pitiful whine escaping him without his consent. 

“Little things shouldn’t be out in this cold,” the man muttered to himself, fretting as he gently touched the hobbit’s forehead and cheeks. “We need to get him warm and safe,” the wizard tutted disapprovingly, concern pinching his features. “This will never do. Help me get him onto the sleigh.”

 

There was a sleigh. The same ridiculous rabbit-drawn sleigh Thorin had scoffed at years ago. A much more welcome sight it was now, promising safety and aid. Thorin had been running too long, fearing for himself and his hobbit, terrified and hunted, taking comfort from his companion but constantly suffering from the guilt of drawing him into such danger in the first place. Thorin _ached_ to be safe, to rest, and he needed that for Bilbo as well.

Between the two of them they quickly loaded what little supplies there were onto the sleigh, Radagast carefully gathering all of the furs and blankets around the hobbit before lifting him, Thorin watching anxiously at his heels.

 

As soon as Bilbo had been laid down with his pile of furs Thorin was there, wriggling his way into the cocoon of warmth and curling around the little hobbit, resting his great head atop his chest. Bilbo gave a small groan and turned his head slightly, but apart from that he remained still and silent, face eerily pale. Another blanket was tucked around them both and the wolf huffed, leaning up to lick at Bilbo’s cheek.

“Off we go!”

The sleigh sped off into the storm, the wind howling around them, ruffling through the small parts of Thorin’s fur that was exposed. He kept his body down, shielding Bilbo from the cold and shutting his eyes. His cold nose nuzzled into the warmth of the hobbit’s neck, letting the reassuring beat of the other’s heart lull him into an exhausted sleep as the world sped by outside of their warm shelter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second time I've had Thorin save Bilbo from drowning. I guess I have a thing for it?
> 
> I know I'm a pitifully slow writer, and I'm sorry about that. Things the past year or so haven't been all that great for me, and I've started writing other fics as well (hopefully I'll have a spooky bagginshield story out for october). It's not a lack of interest! Writing just does NOT come naturally to me. I'll know exactly what I want to happen in a scene, but then I'll just loose my words midway through a sentence. It's frustrating, I'll spend a solid 2 hours writing, and all I'll get done is edit and reword a few paragraphs I had considered already finished, and instead extend them and add some new lines of dialogue before cutting myself off. It's frustrating! So I do apologize. It's not a lack of interest or even time, I just loose my words and it can take a while to find the right ones. I've also become much more critical of my own writing, and will most likely go back and edit this whole story when I'm done (I'd like to think I've improved)
> 
> Sorry to rant, I just though you all deserved an explanation for why this is so miserably late :( 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! I know I'm awful at responding lately, but your comments and kudos are what keep me writing (slow as it may be). I hope you've enjoyed the story so far!
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://teaxdragon.tumblr.com/)


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